Till Death
by deb
Summary: Locke returns, with serious consequences for the Airwolf team. Be warned that the rating is for violence and depictions of evil, not for sex. Seventh story in the "Journey into Darkness" universe.


Summary: Locke returns, with serious consequences for the Airwolf team. Be warned that the rating is for violence and depictions of evil, not for sex. Seventh story in the "Journey into Darkness" universe.

Acknowledgments: I would like to thank Enfleurage for her input - any errors that remain are mine.

Airwolf (unfortunately) isn't mine. Characters and settings belong to their creators. No profit to be made from this story

"Till Death"

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Michael brought Junior in over the lake, flaring the helicopter and letting it settle gently onto the dock. He shut everything down, then climbed out. Closing the hatch behind him, he started up the path towards the cabin, favoring his left leg. As he did, he saw Hawke step out onto the porch.

"Slumming, Michael?" Hawke called, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he were fighting a smile.

"Cait sent me with a dinner invitation." _Actually, she had told Michael to drag the pilot home with him by force, if necessary._ "She said to tell you that we're having salmon." Joining Hawke on the porch, Michael dropped heavily into a chair. He and Caitlin had taken the Ferrari for a long drive up the coast the day before. He loved driving the high-powered sports car, despite the way the stiff clutch still played havoc with his knee.

"Wild or farm-raised?"

Michael snorted. "Do you think I'd bother to invite you if it was farmed?"

Hawke leaned against the railing and gave the agent a suspicious look. "So what's she planning? A sudden medical emergency?"

"Medical emergency? Oh." Abruptly, he realized what Hawke meant. "If so, she didn't tell me about it." Now that he considered it, Michael wouldn't put it past Caitlin to invite Marella to join them. "Cait's just worried about you spending so much time up here alone." In truth, Michael was nearly as concerned about Hawke as she was. It had been nearly two months since Tet's age had finally caught up with him. Since the dog's passing, Hawke had reverted to his reclusive ways. There had been a quick mission in Airwolf to gather some storm data, another to retrieve a scientist from Antarctica. Other than that, Hawke had remained holed up in the cabin.

"What makes you think I'm alone?"

Michael looked up sharply, trying to discern whether Hawke was serious. It was possible that Marella could be there, although unlikely, given her usual office hours. Since Hawke had stayed with her after he was injured in Bolivia, the two had maintained a casual relationship that Caitlin defined as "friends with benefits." It was something both Hawke and Marella seemed satisfied with. "Are you?"

"Not entirely." Hawke crossed the porch to open the front door and leaned into the opening, whistling. "Come on, Buddy. Come meet Michael."

There was a blur of motion, and Michael suddenly found himself with a partly-grown coonhound half in his lap. Oversized feet left faintly muddy prints on the formerly spotless white fabric of his pants as the dog pushed him back into his seat, demanding attention. Hawke chuckled. "As I said, I'm not entirely alone." He finally tugged on the dog's collar until the animal settled beside the chair with an earnest whimper. "Good boy."

Brushing himself off, Michael couldn't resist grinning at the dog's eagerness. "So where'd you get the mutt?"

"Marella. One of her patients. Buddy was a little too much to handle. He knocked the kid over and broke her wrist. Parents decided that the pup had to go. Marella volunteered me to take him."

Trust Marella to come up with exactly what Hawke needed. Michael wondered if the story regarding the animal's origins was true, or if she'd found the dog elsewhere. _Not that it mattered._ "The invite still stands, if you're interested?"

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Hawke pushed his plate away and wiped his lips with his napkin. "That was actually pretty good. Are you sure you really made all that? You're not hiding a hired chef somewhere around here, are you?" he teased, making an obvious show of looking around as if searching for someone.

"No, I'm not hiding a chef. I did it all myself, Michael didn't even help." Caitlin didn't think it was necessary to mention that she'd gotten the recipe for the peach cobbler from her mother. _After all, she had done the actual cooking._ Caitlin rose from the table and started clearing dishes. "If you'd come down from that lake a little more often, you might find out my cooking has gotten a lot better."

"You mean you've learned to boil water without burning it?"

Fighting back a smile, Caitlin snatched a dish towel from the counter and threw it at Hawke. "Michael, are you going to let him talk that way about my cooking?"

Her husband grinned. "Actually, I was just about to go untie Emeril and send him home."

"Very funny. Just for that, you get to do the dishes." She sat back down at the table in mock annoyance, secretly pleased by the good-natured ribbing. Hawke's mood had improved considerably since the last time she had seen him.

Michael began packing the dishes into the dishwasher. Hawke rose and joined him. "I'll give you a hand." He started filling the sink and stacking pans. "So besides Cait learning to cook, what else have I missed?"

"Did I tell you that the committee reached a final decision regarding Junior's disposition?" Michael asked.

"No. Am I going to like it?"

"I don't know. I'm pleased." Michael's mustache twitched, covering a grin. "Zeus convinced them that having Junior seen flying around the area would help to explain away any sightings of Airwolf. Since it doesn't really fit in with the Firm's fleet of Long Rangers, it's going to be transferred to private ownership."

"Private ownership, huh?" From the look on his face, Hawke surmised who that private owner might be.

"They're writing Junior off as Michael's bonus for taking early retirement," Caitlin explained. Her husband had been flying the look-alike helicopter for months, ever since they had retrieved it from his father's barn, but the arrangement had only been formalized a few weeks earlier.

Hawke turned sharply. "Retirement?"

"They're giving me the golden handshake. It's in name only," Michael assured him. "It was initially Zeus's idea, but I have to agree. Airwolf isn't officially under the Firm's control. I never actually gave her back. One thing hasn't changed; even after eleven years, that helicopter is still a hot commodity. There are a dozen other agencies that would love to get their grubby hands on her, and it won't take them long to figure out she's under my control. If I'm an employee, that makes things more than a little sticky for the Firm. So, I'm retired. Nothing changes from the old status quo, except I don't draw a paycheck any more."

The pilot scowled. "You trust Zeus not to double cross us?"

"I never thought I'd say it, but yes, I do," Michael said.

"You're not old enough to retire."

"I'm fifty-five, Hawke. With years of service, that's old enough to take an early out."

Hawke paused, appearing to do some mental arithmetic. "Time flies, doesn't it?"

Cait suspected that along with the years, he had calculated how old Dom would be, had he survived. "Yeah, it certainly does," her husband answered quietly.

Hawke rolled up his sleeves. "I can't imagine what Dom would say if he knew that now you're the one hiding Airwolf," he said, as if to confirm Caitlin's thoughts, "Never mind that you're flying his Lady." Hawke chuckled and gave Michael a sideways glance. "Come on, old man. Let's finish these dishes."

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"They're having a huge sale at the mall," Caitlin said, reading the paper as she finished her morning coffee at the kitchen table. "Want to go with me?"

He leaned over her. "And hold your purse while you try on every dress in Macy's?"

She reached back to swat him with the newspaper. "Please, I'm not that bad. Besides, I'm not looking for a dress. I need a new pair of sandals."

"Four hours in the shoe store. Even better," he snickered, ducking out of her reach as she swung the paper again.

Caitlin rose from her seat and took her cup to the sink. "And here I was, thinking we could buy _you_ something."

Michael came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her as she leaned back into him. "I know your idea of buying me something. You're still trying to turn me into a damned peacock."

She turned to face him, smiling as she ran her index finger lightly down the front of the spotless white shirt. _It was still a rare occasion when she could get him to wear anything with any color to it._ "Better a peacock than a ghost." Raising herself on her toes, she gave him a quick kiss. "Although I have to admit, you do make a damned sexy ghost."

"You think so, do you?"

"Oh yeah." She kissed him again. "You're sure you don't want to go shopping?"

He nuzzled her neck. "I can think of other things I'd rather be doing. Why don't you forget about the mall and we'll go do one of them?"

Caitlin sighed. "Because I really need new sandals." As tempting as his suggestion might be, the strap on her favorite pair was starting to tear. _Then again, he wasn't the only one who could flirt._ Her lips brushed his ear. "If you don't want to go with me, how about you relax and take a nap or something until I get back? Then you'll be all rested up and we can pick this up where we left off?"

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After an hour spent trying unsuccessfully to concentrate on the novel he'd been reading, Michael gave up and set the book aside. He debated turning on the television, but decided against it. There was little to choose from on a Saturday morning except cartoons, and he wasn't that bored. _Not yet, at any rate._

One of the reasons why he had agreed so quickly with Zeus's suggestion of retirement was that leaving the Firm would divest him of the agency's seemingly endless paperwork. Now, though, he was bored enough that he almost wished he had some of those reports to study.

His restlessness was at least in part due to the throbbing centered in his left knee. It was still bothering him; the Ferrari's clutch combined with the bumper to bumper traffic they'd hit near Santa Barbara had been more than sufficient to set off the temperamental joint. The knee had been the real reason he hadn't gone shopping with Caitlin. Standing around while she tried on shoes and clothes would only have aggravated it further.

Of course, he could have told her that his knee was acting up, and she would have either cut her shopping trip short or postponed it until another day. _Caitlin wouldn't have minded, but he would have._ He might occasionally allow his infirmities to influence his actions, but he'd be damned if he would allow them to dictate Cait's.

He knew he was lucky; while the pain in his leg never totally went away, most days it was limited to stiffness and a dull ache he could mostly put out of his mind. The same was true of his shoulder. As long as he didn't push it too hard, the damaged nerves and the limited range of motion were, more than anything, an annoying inconvenience. With a little forethought and a bit of creative engineering, he could almost always accomplish whatever he set out to do. He glanced up at the fan that hung from the living room ceiling with a degree of satisfaction. _Installing it had taken a fair amount of that creativity._

Michael stretched his leg, propping it on the ottoman, and picked the book up again. He had just opened it when the phone rang. Grateful for the distraction, he snatched it up on the second ring. "Hello?"

"Michael Coldsmith Briggs?" The voice at the other end of the line was muffled, but carried a certain familiarity.

"Speaking."

"This is Jason Locke."

Michael dropped the book he was holding back onto the end table. "So, you did survive."

"I would imagine that you know how?"

_Because Moffet had injected him with the nanites._ Michael didn't say what he was thinking. "Why are you calling me?"

"We need to meet."

"Why?"

"I have information. It's vital to national security, and I don't have anywhere else to go with it."

Michael wasn't sure what Locke was up to. "So talk to me."

There was a hesitation. "No. This needs to be face to face. I have physical evidence that you can pass along to the committee."

Scowling, Michael made a decision. "All right. When and where?"

"Horn's compound at the old Redwolf development site. Can you be there at one?"

"Yeah." Before he could say anything else, Michael heard a click at the other end of the line. Sighing, he hung up the phone.

He debated calling Hawke. There was time enough before the meeting to swing by the cabin and pick the pilot up, but Hawke still wanted Locke's head. After Hawke had recovered from the concussion he'd received in Bolivia, Michael had informed him that Locke might still be alive. He hadn't explained further, simply allowing Hawke to believe Locke's Fennec had autorotated to a controlled crash landing. Hawke hadn't been pleased with the news.

_No, he would go alone._ Michael went into the kitchen and grabbed a scrap of paper. He left a note for Caitlin, a quick scribbled message that he'd gone out, and would be back in a few hours. _There was no need to worry her with the details._

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Flipping switches, Michael shut the helicopter down. He waited while the blades coasted to a stop and the dust they had stirred settled, using the time to look over the abandoned facility. The buildings were much as they had been the last time he had seen them, windows splintered and doors swinging in the breeze, stark reminders of Zebra squad's assault on Horn's headquarters.

Locke had set the meeting for one o'clock. A quick glance at his watch told Michael that he was half an hour early. It would give him time to scout the area for any surprises. _He didn't know what Jason Locke was up to, only that he didn't trust the man as far as he could throw him._ Automatic in hand, Michael popped the door and stepped out onto the parched earth.

From what he could see, the place seemed deserted. _Regrettably, Junior lacked Airwolf's scanning abilities._ Ignoring the protests of his knee, he crossed quickly to the nearest building, one that Horn had used as a barracks. A glance through the opening left by a shattered window pane revealed that the place was empty, stripped of anything even remotely salvageable. Keeping his back against the wall, he carefully moved deeper into the complex.

By the time he had checked the third building, he had started to relax. _Maybe Locke did just want to talk._ Michael decided to wait in the relative comfort of the helicopter, and turned to head back towards Junior, long ingrained caution keeping him close to the meager cover the decaying shed provided.

The sound was faint, and Michael turned to find its source, expecting to see nothing more than a bit of debris blowing in the wind. His gaze raked broken boards, desolate landscape, rusty oil drums- _A flash of sunlight glinting off shiny metal._

He ducked instinctively. The crack of the pistol was accompanied by the thud of a bullet burying itself into the wood, scant inches from his head. Ducking low, Michael scurried to the corner of the building even as he searched for the precise location of the shooter. _There_. A darkly dressed figure huddled behind the oil drum. Given the distance and shadows, Michael couldn't tell if the figure was Locke. The bullet had come too close to simply be a warning. _It seemed unlikely that Locke would have lured him there just to kill him, but who else could be lurking at the abandoned facility? _Michael took careful aim and pulled the trigger. The individual went down, motionless.

From somewhere ahead and off to his right, another shot rang out. This one didn't miss. The force of the bullet's impact was a sucker punch to his gut, and it sent Michael reeling. He let his momentum carry him to the ground, taking him out of his assailant's line of fire. Landing hard, he somehow managed to keep his grip on the automatic. Rolling onto his back, Michael bit down on his lip, willing himself to simply stay quiet and wait. He refused to look down to find the source of the burning pain, knowing he couldn't afford the distraction. Odds were that the second gunman would be coming to be sure he'd hit his mark.

Patience was soon rewarded. He heard whistling, the scuff of boots on gravel. Moments later the man rounded the corner of the building, cigarette in one hand, weapon held loosely in the other. _Cocky bastard thought he'd finished me._ Michael didn't hesitate. He pulled the trigger once, a second time even as his assailant fell.

Certain that the man was dead, Michael edged back against the building, pushing himself into a sitting position. He finally allowed himself to look down.

The wound was a couple inches below his belt, just to the right of center. A trickle of blood ran from the surprising small hole, the deep red a sharp contrast as it slowly soaked the white fabric of his pants. He reached around, checking his side and back for an exit wound. He didn't find one.

_Damn it._ A jacketed round would have gone all the way through. The lack of a second wound probably meant a hollow-point. Instead of a couple relatively clean holes, the soft, malleable bullet had undoubtedly shredded his intestines.

It was still a survivable wound, although a damned unpleasant one. At best, it would equate to considerable sheet time. Michael pushed that thought out of his mind. He needed to get back to Junior, grab the radio and call for help. Leaning against the building for support, he tried to get to his feet, only to find his legs wouldn't hold him. _What the hell?_

Michael tried again, barely making it to one knee before he sagged back to the ground, his strength gone. He groaned with frustration. _The damned helicopter wasn't more than a hundred feet away. All he had to do was get there._ He reached to loosen his belt, which had somehow managed to tighten itself around his waist. As he tugged on the strip of leather, he realized it wasn't the belt. His abdomen was rapidly swelling.

_Shit._ The swelling told him what his sudden weakness meant. Somewhere deep inside, the bullet had torn more than intestines. It had severed a major blood vessel. There was no way he would ever make it back to Junior, but it didn't matter. _Even if the radio was in his hand, it wouldn't do him any good. He would be dead before anyone could get there._ He was bleeding out internally and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

The automatic had grown impossibly heavy, and he let it drop into the dirt. _Why the hell had he agreed to meet with Locke? Why had Locke set him up?_

_Had he told Caitlin how much he loved her before she left to go shopping?_ He couldn't remember. He hoped that he had. "I'm sorry, Cait," he whispered. "I'm so sorry." They had promised each other they'd spend the rest of their lives together. He had always thought they would have more time.

His last thoughts of his wife, Michael's world faded to black.

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_Pain._ It broke through the fog that enveloped him, pushing him to its surface. There was someone leaning over him, a slim female figure silhouetted in the dim light. _Whatever she was doing hurt like __hell._

He groaned, and she jumped, startled. Recovering, she smiled down at him, her expression sympathetic. "I'm sorry. I thought you were still asleep. I'll be as gentle as I can."

The haze threatened to pull him back into its clutches, despite the dagger buried in his stomach. _He was heavily drugged, probably morphine_. Michael fought to stay conscious, trying to concentrate. The woman bending over him was dark, with curly hair. "Mar..." he began, breaking off when he realized the word was unintelligible, even to his own ears. His lips were dry, and his mouth felt like it was full of cotton. He licked his lips and tried again. "Marella?" he managed, knowing even as he choked out the word that despite the resemblance, it wasn't her.

"Christine."

Michael hissed as the dagger twisted. "What...?"

"I need to finish this dressing. I know it hurts but it's too soon for another dose." Her voice was soft, apologetic. "I'm almost done."

_Dressing? What dressing?_ The drugs made it impossible to think, difficult even to keep his eyes open. Too tired to fight it any longer, he let them fall closed.

He didn't know how much time had passed when the touch of her hand on his roused him. "All done."

It didn't hurt quite as much as it had. He licked his lips again. He was so damned thirsty. "Water. Please."

"I'm sorry Michael, I don't dare give you anything to drink just yet." She moved away for a moment before returning. "See if this helps."

A damp cloth moistened his lips. It wasn't what he wanted, but it was better than nothing. "Thank you." He tried to focus. He remembered gunshots, falling – but it all blurred into an unidentifiable jumble. "What... where?"

"You're safe now." Christine tugged blankets up around his shoulders then reached to inject something into the IV hanging beside the bed. "That's all that's important. Right now you need to rest."

He could almost feel the drugs flooding into his bloodstream. The fog descended, closing in around him, and he slept.

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Michael blinked hard, eyes slowly adjusting to the sunlight. The mist that still clouded the edges of his mind had thinned enough for him to take in his surroundings. The bag of IV fluid hanging above him and the metal guardrails of the bed suggested he was in a hospital, but a closer look made him reconsider. In his experience, hospitals didn't sport bright, floral wallpaper and knotty pine furniture.

He remembered being shot, his conviction that he was dying. Since he was still alive, the damage hadn't been nearly as bad as he'd thought. Trying to sit up, Michael found he lacked the strength to do much more than raise his head. Instead, he worked his hand across his stomach, trying to determine by touch just how seriously he was injured. He was wearing a hospital gown; through it, he could tell that his stomach was still badly distended. Tape and a pad of thick gauze protected his lower abdomen, but the bandage was too small to be covering a laparotomy, and there were no tubes or drains. _No major surgery, then._ Michael sighed with relief, deciding the bullet had simply lodged in his abdominal wall, instead of his gut_._

His inspection was interrupted as the woman from the previous night entered the room. She smiled warmly. "You're awake."

"Yeah. Christine, is it?" This time, he was prepared for how dry his mouth was, and when he spoke, he managed to get the words out.

"I'm surprised you remember." She came to the side of the bed, and he got a good look at her. In the light of day, there was no mistaking her for Marella. This woman's skin was darker, and her hair shorter than his former aide wore hers. She was also younger, probably not more than thirty or thirty five. "Are you in a lot of pain?" she asked.

"I'm okay." The drugs were wearing off, but he'd had plenty of experience dealing with pain. That wasn't what worried him. "Why am I so weak?"

"It's to be expected. You lost a lot of blood." Christine adjusted the flow from the IV bag. "Still thirsty?"

"Terribly." _He would sell his soul for a glass of water._

"I don't want to give you anything while you're flat on your back, and if I raise the head of the bed I'm afraid you'll faint on me." She hesitated. "Let's roll you onto your side. Then I'll fetch you a drink, okay?"

He wasn't sure he had the strength to turn over, but he desperately wanted the water. "Yeah." Michael managed to get his hand wrapped around the safety rail of the bed. He pulled with what effort he could muster as she helped him, but he knew he never could have done it on his own.

"That's good." She poured water into a Styrofoam cup from a pitcher on the dresser and added a straw. Returning to his bedside, she lowered the rail. "I'll hold this for you. Just take it slowly."

Michael sipped at the water. To his parched lips, it tasted like heaven. He had drank nearly half of it when his stomach rebelled, spasming violently. _Damn it._ "I'm going to -" he began. It was as far as he got with the warning.

Instantly, the cup was replaced by a bucket. The water came up first, then a mass of thick, clotted, nearly black blood. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see what else might follow. It lasted for what seemed like forever, the gagging sending bolts of lightning burning through him.

It stopped, finally, leaving him shaking with exhaustion, what little energy he'd had completely spent. It felt as if he had vomited up everything he had ever eaten, and at least half of his internal organs as well. As he tried to catch his breath, he felt Christine's hand on his shoulder. "Are you still having cramps?"

"I think it's stopped," he managed. He opened his eyes, carefully keeping them averted from the bucket she still held. _He wasn't about to look._

"Good." She reached for the water. "Rinse your mouth out for me."

He did as she asked, eyes blinking shut again as he spit it out. From somewhere near the head of the bed, she produced a damp washcloth. "Any more nausea? How do you feel?" she asked, gently wiping his face.

"Nausea's passed, it just hurts like hell." Michael wrapped his arm protectively around his stomach, surprised to find that the bandage was dry and not soaked with blood. It felt as if he had torn himself wide open. Even the simple motion of breathing was agony.

She retrieved the Styrofoam cup. "I want you to drink the rest of this."

_Thirsty or not, that was the last thing he wanted._ "No."

"You've got to, Michael," she insisted. "You're dehydrated, and I can only get so much fluid into you through that IV."

"I can't do that again. I haven't got the strength."

"It will be all right. You had to clean that out of your stomach. Now that it's gone, you won't be sick again." Christine held out the cup.

Realizing what she wasn't saying, Michael glared at her with all the venom he could manage. "You knew that would happen."

She looked away, not meeting his eyes. "Yeah. I knew."

"You could have warned me."

"No, I couldn't have. You would have refused the water. I needed you to drink, and that crap had to come up. Unfortunately, I have no way of getting a nasogastric tube into you, which means that it had to come up the hard way." Christine raised the cup again. "You'll be okay now. Come on, Michael. As soon as you finish this, I'll give you something so you can get some rest."

Normally, Michael might have refused the drugs, but now, he was worn out and hurting too much to argue. He cautiously sipped from the straw, relieved to find that this time the water stayed down. As soon as he was done, she kept her word. The morphine flowed into his system, and the fog took him, carrying him away to a place where the knife twisting in his belly could no longer reach him.

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The next time Michael woke, Christine was sitting beside the bed, reading. "Do you ever sleep?" he asked.

She smiled, putting the magazine down. "While you're out. I've got a pretty good idea how the drugs affect you. You're just about due for another dose."

_Which explained why his mind was relatively clear._ "Hold off on that. I don't need it yet." There was some pain, but it was tolerable, and that was preferable to the oblivion that the morphine brought.

"You're feeling better, then?" she asked.

"Marginally." It wasn't much, but it was something.

"Good. On that note, it's time we got you off your back." Christine reached for the remote that controlled the bed. "I'm going to run this up a little bit at a time. If you start to feel dizzy, tell me and I'll stop."

She raised the head of the bed slowly, pausing several times to let him acclimate to the change. "I think that's enough for today," she said, stopping somewhere past a forty-five degree angle. "That okay?"

"Fine." Michael wasn't going to admit how lightheaded he was. He hoped that in a few minutes it would pass.

Christine poured him a cup of water. "Can you hold this?"

In answer, he took it from her and sipped cautiously. "What time is it?" From the sunlight streaming through the window, it was daytime. He couldn't tell more than that.

Apparently convinced that he could handle the water himself, she sat back down in the chair. "Around ten."

Morning, then. It occurred to him that he had no real idea of how much time had passed. "I should be asking what day is it."

"It's Monday."

_Monday._ He had gone to meet Locke on Saturday, leaving Caitlin a note that he would be back that afternoon. _She had to be worried sick._ "I need to call my wife and tell her I'm all right." _All right being a relative term._

"You can't. Not right now. It's too dangerous, for both her and us."

_Dangerous?_ It wasn't what Michael wanted to hear. He needed answers. "Where are we? Who are you, Christine? Why am I here?" _Was he a hostage? Was she involved with those who had shot him?_

"You're someplace safe, and I'm a friend. I promise you that. The details can wait until you get your strength back. The sooner you do, the sooner you can go home to Caitlin."

Michael sighed. Given that he was in no condition to put up an argument, much less a fight, there was little he could do but accede to Christine's wishes. "Fine."

She rose, taking the empty cup from him. "Do you think you could manage some soup?"

"Maybe." He wasn't sure how well it would go down, but if he wanted to get stronger, he'd have to try.

Christine refilled the water and gave it back to him. "Drink this while I get the soup ready."

She left him alone, returning perhaps ten minutes later. The soup was in a cup rather than a bowl. "I think this will be easier for you to handle."

He took it from her, wrapping both hands around the container, appreciating its warmth. He was cold, despite the blankets. Christine's short sleeves suggested it was him, rather than the room temperature. _Another indication of blood loss._ He didn't want to think about why he'd bled so badly_._

The soup looked horrible, a murky, thick brown. He suspected Christine had run it through a blender. Michael tasted it tentatively, and was relieved to find that it was better than it looked. Cautious of over taxing his stomach, he sipped it slowly. It surprised him when he found that he'd emptied the cup.

"Would you like a refill?"

"No, thank you." He wasn't going to push his luck. The soup had brought another problem with it, though. He hated to say it. "Um, I...I think I'm going to need to use your facilities."

"I'll get you a bedpan."

_Like hell._ "No. I'm going to get up." He pointed to the doorway opposite the bed. "That's the bathroom?"

"Yes, but you're not strong enough to get out of bed yet," she answered, alarmed.

"I can make it." He hoped he was right. The bathroom couldn't be more than ten feet away.

Her gaze shifted back and forth between him and the door. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," he lied. "Are you going to help me, or are you going to get in my way?"

He could see her considering it. "On one condition."

"What's that?"

"Let me give you something first. When you stand up, it's going to hurt. I mean, it's _really_ going to hurt. That's only going to sap your strength."

He shook his head. "That stuff knocks me on my ass." He had always reacted that way to narcotics. It was one of the reasons he hated taking them.

"I won't give you much. Just enough to take the edge off."

Michael considered it. She was right. _Getting out of bed was going to hurt like hell._ He finally agreed. "All right. But no more than a quarter dose."

Christine retrieved a vial and syringe from the dresser and drew up the liquid into the needle. She seemed comfortable with what she was doing. "Doctor or nurse?" he asked.

She raised an eyebrow. "Neither. I was a phlebotomist by trade and volunteered as an EMT-although the last few years, I've spent entirely too much time on the other end of the needle as a patient."

He was tempted to ask what she meant, but she had returned with the morphine and was injecting it into his IV. "That will take a few minutes to work." Christine rolled the IV stand around to the near side of the bed and then went to get something from the closet. She returned with a walker.

It was his turn to hike an eyebrow.

"You're going to need something to lean on." She lowered the railing and pulled down the blankets. "Why don't you see if you can manage to sit on the edge of the bed?"

It sounded simple, except that trying to set up pulled horribly at his abdomen. After his first abortive attempt, he leaned sideways, pushing himself upright with his elbow. Carefully, he eased his legs off the edge of the bed. She was right. It already hurt like hell, and he wasn't even standing yet.

"I don't suppose you'd reconsider that bedpan?" she asked. "You don't have to do this."

"I've always been too stubborn for my own good." Michael pulled himself to his feet as she braced the walker. Leaning heavily on it, he took a cautious step. She followed behind him, bringing along the IV stand.

He felt like Tim Conway in a Carol Burnett skit, doubled over and barely shuffling across the carpet. The ten feet to the bathroom seemed more like ten miles, and he had to pause half way to catch his breath. He finally made it to the door, and he looked over at her. "Sorry, this is as far as you go."

Christine scowled. "Michael, you don't have anything I haven't already seen. What did you think? That elves were coming by in the middle of the night to clean you up?"

"Honestly, I've been trying _not_ to think about that. Nevertheless, you're still staying out here." He pushed the IV stand ahead and entered the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

The bathroom was equipped to be handicapped accessible, which made things easier. While he was there, he took the opportunity to pull up the johnny and examine his stomach. The entire abdomen was still swollen, although that had lessened considerably. Just below his waistline, heavy taping secured a thick bandage. Extending well beyond its edges, dark bruising stained the skin. He wanted to pull the bandage loose and see how bad the wound was, but he didn't dare, afraid he might start it bleeding.

Finished, he slowly made his way back into the bedroom where Christine waited for him. The return trip was harder. Somehow the distance from bathroom to bed had doubled. Every foot or two he had to stop and rest, and only Christine's support kept him upright for the final few steps. Finally, he managed to collapse into the bed, breathing heavily. "Told you I'd make it," he said, barely able to hear his own words over the pounding of his heart.

"As you said, too stubborn for your own good." She helped him get settled then poured more water. "Have you got enough strength left to hold this?"

"I'll manage." He took it from her and drank deeply. When it was empty, Michael gave her back the cup. He was exhausted. "Would you lower the bed for me?"

She did as he asked, then placed the control where he could reach it. "How much pain are you in?"

"It's letting up." Even with the drugs she'd given him, walking had been agony. It was easing now that he was back in bed.

"I can give you more morphine."

"No." He shook his head. "Don't." He would willingly put up with the pain in exchange for a clear head. "I just need to rest."

"That's the best thing for you." She pulled the blankets back over him. "I'm going to go out to the kitchen and see about _my_ lunch. You call me if you need anything."

He was asleep before she could leave the room.

88888888

Michael opened his eyes to golden light filtering through the window. _Late afternoon, judging from the __low angle of the sun._ He turned his head, expecting to find Christine in the bedside chair. Instead, he found Jason Locke. "What the hell...?"

Rising to his feet, Locke raised his hands as if supplication – or surrender. "I owe you an apology. Actually, several of them."

Eyes never leaving his adversary, Michael groped for the remote that controlled the bed. Finding it, he elevated the head. _He wasn't about to confront Locke while he was flat on his back._ "You set me up."

Locke lowered his hands. "No, I didn't. Those men were gunning for me, not you. Unfortunately, you got there before I did and walked straight into an ambush." He picked up a glass from the dresser. "Christine thought you might like some juice."

Michael accepted the glass. He wasn't sure he believed Locke, but on the other hand, his scenario did make a certain degree of sense. _There was one thing, though._ "How did your 'friends' know where to look for you?"

"Given that I called you from a pay phone, my best guess is that your phone is tapped. Either that or there's a bug in your house. It never occurred to me they might anticipate my contacting you." Still standing, Locke leaned against the dresser.

_Shit. _ "Who wants you dead? Besides Hawke, that is?" More than once, Hawke had reiterated his desire to personally deal with the traitorous agent.

"Hakim Zaid. To be precise, _Doctor_ Hakim Zaid." Locke sat down again. "This isn't going to make sense unless I start at the beginning."

Michael snorted. "Do I look like I'm going anywhere?"

Locke had the decency to wince. "I'm not sure how much you already know. You're aware of my father's involvement with Moffet?" At Michael's answering nod, Locke continued. "At the time, I knew my father worked for the Firm, but nothing about what he actually did, much less his-" Locke searched for words "-outside interests."

"That he was working with Moffet to steal Airwolf."

"We weren't particularly close. I hadn't been with the Firm for long myself, and I'd been mainly on foreign assignment. He had gotten me in the door, but there was little contact between us." Locke looked down at his hands. "I came home when I found out he had cancer. He'd kept it a secret as long as he could, and by the time I saw him, he was on his death bed. The cancer had spread to his brain and he was paralyzed on one side. It affected his speech and made him rather difficult to understand, even when he was lucid, which wasn't often. That's why I didn't put much stock in the story he told me."

"Which was?" Michael asked.

"A rather fanciful tale about a supersonic helicopter built using alien technology, and its designer, who supposedly held the key to immortality. My father said he had turned it down when it was offered to him, but that he had changed his mind, and wanted me to go to Bolivia after this magic serum. You have to understand – at the same time, he was also insisting that there were giant purple spiders crawling around his ceiling. He died the next day. I assumed his story had been the tumor and the drugs talking, and didn't think any more of it." Locke paused, drawing a deep breath. "A few months later, I was assigned to work with a Czechoslovakian scientist who had defected to the US. She told me about the helicopter that had rescued her, a helicopter that sounded eerily like the one my father had described. I did some digging and eventually found out about the Airwolf project. After that, I adjusted my career path and made the right friends. And I waited."

_In other words, he sucked up to the committee and brown-nosed them into turning Airwolf over to him the minute Michael had his back turned. Coming back from Cambodia incapacitated had only sealed the deal._ Michael couldn't really fault Locke for pursuing Airwolf, but there were things about the way he went about it that rankled. _One in particular._ "You led everyone to believe that Stringfellow Hawke was dead."

"True," Locke admitted, "although initially it was St. John's idea. His brother had serious injuries from the explosion, and Santini's death had nearly pushed him over the edge. Hawke spent a month in a private hospital, another in rehab. In all that time, I don't think he said two words to any of the staff unless it was in response to a direct question. When he got out, he locked himself away at that cabin of his. He never so much as mentioned the idea of flying Airwolf again, at least not to me."

"And you weren't about to suggest it."

"No, I wasn't, and I admit that one reason was fear that I'd lose control of the aircraft. It was more than that, though. The mental state he was in, he was in no condition to be left in charge of a tactical weapon."

Michael considered pointing out that String's mental state might not have been so precarious if Locke hadn't kept him hidden away from his friends. _That, however, was water under the bridge._ "So when did you decide you wanted to live forever?"

"I didn't." Locke rose, pacing. "Actually, I had nearly forgotten about that part of my father's story. It was just too fantastic – an advanced helicopter is one thing, even one reverse engineered from alien technology. Immortality is something else entirely." He sighed loudly. "In June of 91, I was engaged to be married. The wedding was planned for the following summer. I was ready to give up Airwolf and settle down to raise a family. I put in for transfer to an executive position in Europe."

"You tried to bribe the committee into giving you the job by handing them Airwolf." _Michael wasn't willing to let all of Locke's transgressions slide. _

"Something I'm not particularly proud of. As it worked out, I wouldn't have taken the position even if it had been offered to me. A few weeks after I applied for it, my fiancée went to the doctor. Her leg had been bothering her - muscle weakness and cramps. She thought it was a pinched nerve. It turned out to be ALS."

"ALS?"

"Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis. More commonly known as Lou Gehrig's disease."

"Damn." Michael knew what Gehrig's was. _It wasn't a good way to die._

"She canceled the wedding, and told me that she didn't expect me to stick around. In fact, she tried her best to run me off." Locke paused in his pacing. "That's when I remembered the rest of my father's tale. He'd said that his immortal friend was running the computer company our family owned in Bolivia. I had trouble believing that - by then I'd read your reports on how Moffet died. However, I went down there to be sure. To my surprise, I found that he was very much alive."

He began pacing again, clipped, directionless steps. "Moffet had spent most of the previous eight years 'experimenting.' He showed me some of his notes, and a few of his subjects. I was both ecstatic and horrified. The research all but confirmed that his magic potion could cure ALS, but what he was doing... Moffet was rounding up people who wouldn't be missed. Prostitutes, beggars, drug addicts. Virtually all of them were women. He shot them full of his serum then started carving them up, usually without anesthetic."

"I read a few of his notes myself." Michael considered himself fortunate that he hadn't seen more.

"I wish that all I'd seen were notes. There was one young woman...she couldn't have been more than eighteen. I think he'd skinned her alive. He cut out her vocal cords because he got tired of listening to her scream." Locke looked as if he might be sick at the memory. "I should have found a way to stop him right then and there, but he had something I needed..."

"You made a deal with him?" Michael asked, hoping to change the topic. Locke's recollections of Moffet's experiments were bringing back images of Caitlin strapped to the table in his lab. _He didn't want to think about what that psychopathic bastard would have done to her._

"Moffet had never quite given up on the idea of duplicating Airwolf. His goal was to sell copies to all comers. I think it was more about ego than economic gain; he wanted everyone to see what his genius had created. He was willing to swap Airwolf's blueprints for the immortality serum. All I had to do was download the files. Of course, it got more complicated than that."

"Hawke and Santini had purged the computer."

Locke nodded. "Moffet never explained in detail, but the specific files he needed were gone. Something to do with the turbos. He told me to bring him the helicopter. That's when I found out that St. John had put a password keyed lock on the ignition."

"I don't imagine that Moffet was very pleased."

"He wasn't. He started working on the modified Fennecs. They were meant to be the next generation development of Airwolf. The helicopter was designed so it could be adapted and the turbos installed as soon as Moffet got the plans. He said that if it we couldn't get her any other way, I would use one of the Fennecs to lure Airwolf into a trap."

"How did Horn get involved?" Michael asked.

"Money. Norcom didn't have the resources to build a dozen Fennecs. Since he hadn't had any success getting the real Airwolf, Horn was willing to make an investment in exchange for the first Fennec produced, and promise of an upgrade to the turbos when they were ready."

_The pieces were beginning to come together._ "Why did you blow up Santini Air?"

"I didn't." Locke sat down abruptly in the chair and buried his face in his hands. "I didn't do it, but the explosion was my fault." He took a deep breath and let it out before continuing. "Christine's family isn't close. They weren't around to help. I took care of her myself as much as I could, but she needed round the clock care. Every day the damned disease took something else. They had to put in a feeding tube. Even with what I earned at the Firm, I couldn't afford the nurses, and I couldn't bear to put her in a home. When Horn made the last payment, I didn't think Moffet would notice if I skimmed a little off the top. I was wrong. He killed three friends to teach me a lesson."

Michael wasn't about to admit it, but he felt a stirring of sympathy for Locke. _What if it was Caitlin?_ Locke had sold his soul to the devil for the woman he loved, and Michael knew that given a similar situation, he might have done the same. "Moffet eventually gave you what you wanted?"

"Not until Airwolf showed up on Norcom's radar. Then he pulled out a needle and shoved it into my arm and sent me up to lure Airwolf into his crosshairs. I had to trust that what he gave me wasn't just water, and I had to survive to decant the serum out of my blood so I could use it on Christine."

There was something nagging at Michael. "Why didn't you just take what you needed?"

"Because that bastard kept his 'experiments' locked away where no one except his select few could reach them. Believe me, if I could have gotten to those girls, I would have gotten them out, and I never would have make the deal I did with Moffet."

"That's not what I meant. I meant Airwolf."

Locke stared at him blankly. "Airwolf?"

_Hell. Locke didn't know._ Michael had assumed that Locke's father had explained, but apparently he hadn't. Perhaps he'd never known. "Moffet's serum – it's not some magical alien potion, it's made up of nanites suspended in a carrier medium." After Bolivia, Michael had read up on the technology. Science wasn't one of his strongest subjects, but he understood the basic concept. "Self-replicating microscopic robots, capable of repairing damage on a cellular level, among other things. What Moffet injected you with - the same fluid is the basis of Airwolf's computer."

The other man's expression slowly moved from disbelief to dismay. "You mean...?"

"You had it all along," Michael confirmed. "You just needed to open the computer core."

"Dear God. I didn't know. Michael, you have to believe me, I had no idea. If I had..." Locke's voice broke.

_Why had he told him?_ There was no tactical advantage to it. Michael decided he didn't want to search too deeply for his motives, because he might not like what he found. He changed the subject. "What happened after Hawke shot you down?"

With a visible effort, Locke shook off his emotions. "I went in hard, hard enough that I was afraid the landing would kill me and it would all be for nothing. Luckily, it didn't. I screwed up my back in the crash, but I managed to drag myself away from the wreckage before it burned. I knew that if I just laid there for a day or two, I would heal enough that I could walk back into town and start making my way home."

"I take it that didn't happen?"

"One of Moffet's scientists saw where the Fennec crashed. He came looking. When Zaid found me alive, he knew that my blood contained the serum-" Locke hesitated. "Serum? Nanites? Whatever you want to call it. Anyhow, he and his friends took me to a private compound and shackled me to a bed. Quite literally, they wanted my blood. They kept me prisoner, and every day they'd come and drain off another pint or two."

That sounded insane – even more so than the rest of Locke's story. "Why keep using you? By my understanding, once they injected themselves, their own blood would work just as well?"

"Because they were stockpiling every drop of the stuff they could get. I wasn't the only one they were milking. A week after I was taken, they brought in a number of other captives, locals, I think. I never saw them, but I heard their voices. Bastards used my blood to inoculate them. I got the impression the scientists were harvesting their own blood, too."

"Why?"

"I didn't know at the time. I only knew that the clock was ticking, and if I didn't get out of there, it might be too late. Even at that, it was nearly a month before I managed to escape."

"How _did_ you get loose?" Despite the question, Michael had a feeling he didn't really want to know.

Locke rubbed absently at his wrist. "They had me shackled to the frame of the bed; they must have treated the others the same way. I tried to find something to pick the lock, but my captors were too careful. I was getting more and more desperate. Christine had gone on a ventilator before I left for Bolivia, and I was afraid..." He shook his head. "The place was pretty quiet at night, with only a couple of guards. They knew their prisoners weren't going anywhere, so they didn't pay much attention. Finally I wedged my hand between the bed frame and the wall and jammed it until I broke enough bones that I could pull my hand loose from the shackle. I got out of the building, and started making my way back here. I wish I could have gotten the others out, but..." Locke held up his hand, flexing it. "I'd done quite a job. It took weeks to completely heal."

Michael's own fingers twitched in sympathy. "You said that you didn't know _then_ what your captors were up to?"

"Honestly, I'm still not sure, but I can make an educated guess. I've done some research since. Zaid is Iraqi, and has been highly critical of the US and their role in Desert Storm. He's been connected to an Aleksei Chirkoff. Chirkoff is Russian – or I should say, he was Russian. He's been in Iraq for some years now, at least until recently. Before that, he worked at the military compound at Sverdlovsk."

"The bio weapons facility?"

"Precisely."

Michael searched his memory. In the late 1970's, Sverdlovsk had been the site of an accidental release of a potent strain of anthrax. "What the hell are they up to?"

"I heard something while I was being held, something that didn't mean much to me at the time. A couple of the scientists were discussing aerosol dispersal. I thought they were talking about the serum. Now..."

"Anthrax?"

"Probably. I'd bet that they're planning a terrorist attack, and are going to use the serum to protect their own people. Either that or sell it as a cure."

Michael let out a long breath. _If they had a viable delivery system and attacked a major city... _ He didn't want to think about the number of dead from the anthrax alone, much less the havoc and panic it could cause. "Any ideas on when or where they might hit?"

"I remember Zaid laughing about 'April Fools.' There was also talk about Washington. I can only assume the two are connected."

The nation's capitol in less than a month. If Locke was right, there wasn't much time. "Have you contacted anyone else?"

Locke snorted. "Who? Zeus? Immortal Iraqis working out of Bolivia planning an anthrax attack on DC. I can picture that conversation. Zeus would have me committed. Assuming, of course, that he didn't just have me shot on sight." He stood and began pacing again. "You knew what Moffet was doing, what he was. I thought you might believe me, that's why I called you."

"By my calculations, you escaped at least six months ago. Why didn't you call me sooner?"

"Because I hadn't put it together. I just assumed Zaid wanted the serum for his own people." Locke paused, as if debating exactly what to say, or how much to admit. Finally he sighed. "Some time ago, Moffet had me set up an offshore account. The funds from Horn went through it. After you killed Moffet, there was still money in the account, and he certainly didn't need it. I was busy getting Christine back on her feet, and even if I hadn't been, it's not like I could just go into town and get a job. I went through the lawyer who'd helped set it up. Just withdrew a few thousand, not enough to make anyone suspicious."

Michael sensed there was more. "And?"

"And eventually that money ran out. A couple weeks ago, I called the lawyer to get more. When I went to pick it up, he was dead and there were a pair of Zaid's men waiting for me. It was pure luck that I managed to get away. In retrospect, Moffet had the same contact information for the lawyer that I had. Zaid must have found it, and after I made the first withdrawal, he figured that sooner or later I'd be back."

"I take it they weren't after your blood."

"They wanted me dead. That's when I sat down and started thinking about why. It had to be about more than just immortality. I started putting the pieces together, and that's when I called you."

Michael considered it. "You said you called from a pay phone?"

"I didn't want _you_ tracing the call. No one knew about this place, or about Christine. I wanted to keep it that way. I was going to tell you what I knew, then just disappear again."

_This Zaid was damn cagey, if he had anticipated Locke contacting him. But how could his phone have been tapped? _Michael cursed himself. While he had been an employee, the Firm had maintained a check on his line, and regularly scanned the house for bugs. Since his retirement, he hadn't thought to do it himself. _Shit. That was his own damn fault. _"Sorry I upset your plans."

"I saw your chopper go over as I was driving out to the compound. When I got there... I thought I was too late. You barely had a pulse. You'd lost so much blood I wasn't sure it would work."

_Barely had a pulse? _Since he had first woken, Michael had convinced himself that he'd been mistaken, that he hadn't been as seriously wounded as he first thought. _He couldn't have been, because if he had... No. Please, no._ "What did you do?" he whispered, through suddenly dry lips. "What the hell did you do?"

Locke stopped pacing, nearly in mid-stride. "I thought you knew. I'd brought a vial of the serum with me, so you could pass it along to the committee. When I found you there half dead... I injected you with it, dragged you into the mock-up and got us both out of there before any more of Zaid's men decided to show up."

_No._ Michael closed his eyes. "Get out."

"Michael, I'm sorry-"

He knew what the other man was going to say. _Locke did what he thought he had to do._ "Don't. Just go. Please."

Floorboards creaked lightly, and Michael knew he was alone. He collapsed back against the pillows. _Alien nanoprobes circulating in his blood._ For a moment he was certain that he could feel them - lurking under his skin - tearing their way to the surface. He felt sick to his stomach. _Why had he ever watched those stupid "Alien" movies with Cait? _Sometimes his imagination was entirely too vivid.

Thinking of Caitlin brought regret. His wife had to be frantic. She and Hawke would be searching for him. Then again, if the house was compromised, perhaps that was for the best. As long as they were in Airwolf, they'd be safe. _God, what was he going to tell them? What was he going to tell Cait? How __was he going to explain?_ He had offered Cait eternity, and she had refused. Would she believe that this wasn't his doing?

Soft footsteps on the carpet intruded, and he opened his eyes. "I brought you some dinner." Christine approached with a bed tray loaded with food. She set it on the dresser long enough to lower the side rail, then positioned the tray across his lap.

His talk with Locke had killed his appetite, but he needed to eat if he wanted to regain his strength. In truth, it did smell appealing. Soup – real soup with cubes of vegetables and meat, not the puree he had for lunch – apple pie and coffee. Hot, heavenly coffee. Until that moment, he hadn't realized how much he craved it. "Thank you." He indicated the cup. "Especially for this."

"I wasn't sure how you took it. There's cream and sugar there if you want." To Michael's surprise, she sat down on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle either him or the tray. "If you need help with anything, just ask."

"I think I can manage." He tasted the soup. "This is excellent."

She smiled. "Better when it's not run through the blender, is it?"

"Considerably. Real food, coffee – I'm almost beginning to feel human again." Michael realized with a start just what he had said. He laughed, a short, quick sound with no humor behind it. "Human. I guess that was a poor choice of words."

She reached out, touching his arm, her eyes sympathetic. "Jason told me there was a cure, but it was in South America and not exactly legal. I thought... I assumed it was some experimental drug that wasn't approved here in the states. It wasn't until I'd begun to recover that he told me the rest of it. Once I got it through my head that he wasn't joking... well, it takes time to get past that."

Michael picked at the pie. "Now that you've had the time, any regrets?"

"If I'd known what it was and what its origins were before he injected me, I never would have agreed to it. But regrets? I spent a year and a half in that bed. I couldn't move, I couldn't swallow. It was like being trapped inside my own body. By the end of it, I couldn't even breathe without a machine doing it for me. Three months later I was back on my feet and nearly as strong as I was before I got sick. So to answer your question, no. I regret what Jason did to get it, but the serum itself? No regrets." Christine smiled with what might have been sympathy. "It's not so bad, Michael. It really isn't."

"It scares the living daylights out of me."

"It scared me, too. You get used to the idea. Once you do, I think you'll realize it's not so bad. And, I'm sure you'll enjoy the benefits."

"Benefits?"

"Michael, there's some sort of intelligence driving the serum. Jason told me what you said about nanites. That might explain it. In any event, it seems to know what it needs to fix first. It concentrates on wounds that will kill. Breathing, bleeding, internal organs. Those are the first priority. Broken bones, tendons, ligaments – they're not as important, they come later. In your case, it would have initially concentrated on sealing the bleeding and repairing the intestinal damage. By now, it's working to raise your blood count. Once that reaches an acceptable level, it will finish repairing the abdominal wall. Within a couple weeks, all of this will be little more than a bad memory."

"Good as new, huh?" He pushed the last of the pie around his plate.

"In some ways better..." Christine hesitated. "Michael, I... I couldn't help but notice the scars. I asked Jason. He told me something of your history - Cambodia, Moffet's attack on the test range." She again paused. "Older, preexisting injuries take longer, but they will heal. That includes what might be termed cosmetic damage. It may take years for them to completely disappear, but even the scars will eventually fade."

"I know." Michael had learned that much from what he'd found of Moffet's notes, but hearing Christine say it served as a confirmation. It was something he hadn't allowed himself to think about, not since he had offered Caitlin immortality upon their return from Bolivia. Then, they had both decided the price of eternity was too high. Cait hadn't been willing to give up family and friends; he hadn't been willing to sacrifice his humanity. "I suppose there is that," he admitted. He tamped down a vision of tiny alien robots crawling though his veins. _Damn Cait and her sci-fi movies._ "I just don't know if it's worth it."

"You're alive. Ultimately, that's what really matters." Christine rose from the edge of the bed, taking his tray. "More coffee?"

He wanted to say yes. "As much as I'd like another cup, it's probably not the best thing for me to be drinking."

"Probably not. Can I get you anything else? Pain killers? Something to help you sleep?"

"No, I'm all set." He could feel his eyelids beginning to sag. _Damn. The blood loss was still zapping his strength._ "Thank you. For everything."

"Your welcome." She started to leave, then turned back. "It will be okay. Just give it some time."

88888888

Hawke's eyes scanned the night. Intellectually, he knew that it was far too dark to pick out any details below, but he needed to be doing _something_ beyond just flying search patterns. "Anything?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"Nothing." Even over the intercom, he could hear the fear in Caitlin's voice. "Are you sure this will work?"

"It will work. Keep scanning." Airwolf's near twin had a unique metallurgical signature that would show up on the scanners, and unless Michael had refueled somewhere, Junior had a limited range. They _would_ find the helicopter. Hawke just hoped that when they did, Michael was with it – and they were both still in one piece.

The pilot stifled a yawn. It was nearly time to find a place to land so they could try to get a few hours sleep. Neither he nor Caitlin had gotten more than that in two days, ever since she had returned from the mall to find a cryptic note from Michael saying that he was taking Junior to meet someone. _Who had he gone to meet, and why? Had he even made it to the meeting? Most importantly, where the hell was he now?_

"It's my fault. I should have been with him." Caitlin's voice climbed another octave. "I shouldn't have gone shopping." The more time that passed, the more frantic she was becoming.

"Cait, you only went to the mall. You can't blame yourself." Hawke wished he knew how to reassure her, something becoming increasingly difficult given his own concerns. "Chances are, he had mechanical problems and had to set down somewhere," Hawke lied, trying to paint a positive picture. "He's probably wondering why it's taking us so long to come and pick him up."

"He would have radioed."

"Reception is spotty out here." It was grasping at straws, and Hawke knew it. Junior was equipped with a very effective emergency locator beacon. If he'd been forced to land - or if he'd crashed - Michael would have triggered the beacon. _If he could._

This time, Hawke couldn't smother the yawn._ They were both far too tired; they were going to miss something. _"Cait, once we finish this section of the grid, I'm putting her down until first light."

The expected protest came quickly. "String, I can fly for awhile."

She hadn't gotten any more sleep than he had, probably less. "No. We both need some shuteye. We'll pick it up fresh in the morn-"

Caitlin cut him off. "I've got something. Three o'clock, about thirty miles out!"

Suddenly wide awake, Hawke changed their course. "Punch up a map. What's down there?" After hours of searching the desolate darkness, he had only a vague idea of their position, somewhere northwest of Vegas.

"Mount Charleston."

_Mount Charleston_. Sparsely populated, mostly wilderness. An unlikely location. _Had Michael crashed?_ _They would know soon enough._ "Cait, what have you got on infrared?"

"I see Junior. Looks to be intact." There was guarded relief in her voice. "Junior is tucked into a small clearing. Right behind a cabin, near the top of the ridge."

It didn't feel right. _What would Michael be doing way out here, and why hadn't he at least contacted __them?_ "Anyone around?"

"Three heat sources in the building."

Hawke made a decision. "Go to stealth mode." Whoever was in the cabin, he didn't want them to hear Airwolf's approach. "Find me a place to set down. Somewhere out of sight."

Caitlin did as he asked. Minutes later, he brought the helicopter to a gentle landing a few hundred yards from the cabin, on the opposite side of the ridge. As he shut the rotors down, Hawke wondered what, exactly, they were going to find. He checked his automatic. _If Michael was being held, tortured..._ "Cait, I think you should stay here."

"Not on your life." Caitlin slipped her own weapon into her waistband.

Despite the darkness, they moved quickly through the woods, slowing as they approached the clearing. Hawke motioned for Caitlin to stay put, then crept quietly toward the house. Flattening himself against the wall, he edged closer to the nearest window. Something rustled faintly behind him and he looked back over his shoulder. _Caitlin._ So much for telling her to wait.

Hawke angled himself closer, trying to get a look through the window without exposing himself. The curtains were drawn, with only a slim sliver of light visible between them. Two people, a man and a woman, their backs to him. _As improbable as it seemed, they were at the sink, doing dishes. _ The man turned to put a plate in the cupboard and Hawke got a look at his face. _ Jason Locke._

Ducking below the window, Hawke pulled Caitlin down beside him. He leaned close. "Locke," he breathed into her ear.

Even in the moonlight, her look of alarm was obvious. "Michael?" she mouthed the word.

He shook his head. Whether the third heat signature Caitlin had picked up on the thermal imaging was Michael or not was anyone's guess. There was only one way to find out. Crouching to stay well below the window, Hawke moved quickly towards the door.

The cabin was aging and roughly constructed. He wasn't surprised to find that the front door was secured only by a simple lock, one that could be easily forced. Hawke waved Caitlin to the other side of the door frame and signaled his intentions. She nodded her understanding, gripping her weapon tightly in both hands.

Hawke lashed out with a booted foot, sending wood splintering and the door crashing open. Caitlin was through the opening even before he could regain his balance. He was scarcely a step behind her.

Standing at the sink, Locke turned sharply, visibly alarmed. One hand still held the dish towel. "Ah, Stringfellow Hawke." Oddly, Locke seemed to relax. "And you must be Caitlin?" He nodded what might have been a greeting towards her, before returning his attention to Hawke. "I suppose I should have expected you to turn up. It's good to see you again, Hawke, although you could have just knocked instead of destroying my door."

The barrel of Caitlin's gun wavered between Locke and the woman, who appeared as strangely at ease as Locke himself. "Where's Michael?" Cait demanded, before Hawke could respond. "What have you done with my husband?"

"Michael's safe. He's in the bedroom sleeping – at least he was sleeping, when I checked. I'm afraid you've probably woken him." The woman glowered at Hawke.

_Safe_. Hawke didn't believe that for a moment. Neither, he suspected, did Caitlin. "Can I...?" she asked, glancing towards him, her eyes pleading.

"No. Stay put." They had no way of knowing who that third heat source really was, and it was damned unlikely that if it was Michael, that he was simply dozing while Locke did housework. Hawke focused his attention on Locke. _Michael had been right; the bastard had somehow survived the crash of the Fennec._ Hawke kept his automatic aimed directly at the former agent. "Move away from there, both of you. Slowly, and keep your hands where I can see them." There were too many knives in the sink, and he wanted Locke well clear of any possible weapons. "Cait, search them."

The couple did as he demanded. "Hawke, you don't need to do this," Locke said, as Caitlin patted him down before moving to check the woman beside him. "Believe it or not, we're both on the same side."

Locke's words only infuriated Hawke. "Like hell we are. You killed my brother, and you led us into a trap down in Bolivia." The automatic was a comforting weight in his hand, and Hawke itched for an excuse to pull the trigger. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't shoot you right here and now."

"I'll give you two." Michael's ragged voice drew Hawke's attention. He looked toward the source, and found the agent coming slowly towards them, leaning heavily against the wall of the hallway as he moved. Michael sagged against the kitchen doorway, as if using it to prop himself up. "First, Locke didn't kill your brother. Second, he's telling the truth. For the moment, at least, he's on our side."

Upon seeing Michael, Caitlin had lowered her weapon. Shoving it into her waistband, she rushed to her husband's side. Hawke saw the grimace that flashed across Michael's face as she pulled him into a tight embrace. He looked like hell - his face pale and drawn - and the hospital gown he wore surely wasn't a fashion statement. _Something was wrong. Very wrong._ "Go easy, Cait," Hawke warned.

The other woman started toward Michael, ignoring Hawke and the weapon he still held. "How did you...? Michael, you shouldn't be up. You're not strong enough-"

"It's okay, Christine. I'm alright." Despite his words, Michael had his arm tight around Cait's shoulders. It appeared as if she was the only thing keeping him upright.

"No, you're not." Christine ducked under his other arm, scowling as she glanced toward Caitlin. "Give me a hand. We need to get him back to bed." With Cait's assistance, Christine began to help Michael back down the hallway.

Hawke knew that he had lost control of the situation. Unwilling to let Cait and Michael out of his sight, he waved the automatic at Locke, indicating he should follow. "Don't try anything."

The bedroom was at the far end of the hall. Halfway there Locke took Christine's place. Between them, they got Michael into the bed. He leaned back against the pillows, clearly exhausted.

"You pulled out your IV." Christine frowned as she adjusted the covers and tucked him into bed.

"Had to. I was afraid Hawke would shoot first and ask questions later." Michael answered, giving Hawke a look.

The pilot had heard enough. None of it was making sense. He gestured toward the IV bottle hanging above the bed. "What the hell is that? Are you drugging him?" _Was Michael being brainwashed? Was that why he appeared to be in league with Locke?_

Christine shook her head as she untangled the tubing. "I've offered him morphine, but this is just lactated Ringer's. Basically saline solution - fluid replacement," she explained. "Michael was shot. He lost a lot of blood."

Caitlin looked up sharply. "What? Shot? Michael, we've got to get you to a hospital."

He shook his head. "No hospital. It's nothing that a few days rest won't cure."

Hawke couldn't see any bandages, and that gown didn't cover many non-lethal possibilities. "Where were you hit?"

It was Christine who answered, as she worked to re-attach the IV. "A couple inches below his belt buckle."

_Damn_. _ That wasn't good._ "Michael, you have _got_ to go to the hospital." Hawke understood his reluctance, knowing the agent had no more love of the medical profession than he had, but that was more than a simple flesh wound. It _might_ prove not to be as bad as it sounded, but that certainly wasn't something they could risk.

"We'll get you loaded into the Lady, we can be there in less than an hour," Caitlin added, the fear returning to her voice, clearly understanding how serious it was.

"No." Michael reached out, taking her hand. "Cait, you don't understand. It's not that simple. I _can't_ go to the hospital. Locke..." He hesitated, "Locke saved my life."

"But..." Hawke saw her concern and confusion replaced by a sudden look of absolute horror. "Locke? You don't mean...?"

Her husband nodded slightly. "I'm afraid that's exactly what I mean."

Caitlin's face went almost as pale as his, and Hawke saw her shudder. He expected her to argue, but she didn't. "Michael," she said, finally, "Let me call Marella."

He didn't answer her for a long moment. "Alright," he finally agreed, "but don't call. Our house has been compromised. Either our phone is tapped or the place is bugged. It's possible they thought to tap Marella's, too. Go get her yourself. While you're there, run a complete scan on the house. If you find anything, destroy it. Make sure no one follows you back here."

She scowled at him, even as her fingers wrapped around his. "I don't want to leave you."

"Christine's been taking good care of me. I'll be fine. When you come back, though, you can bring in my duffel out of Airwolf. I'd like to get back into my own clothes. This gown might be convenient, but the draft is annoying." To Hawke, the smile Michael gave her seemed tired and forced.

Caitlin turned toward Hawke, her eyes silently asking his permission. He didn't want to give it. Instincts honed while flying wounded men out of the jungles of Viet Nam demanded that he drag Michael to the nearest hospital just as fast as he could. Given the injury Christine described, it was the only reasonable course of action, yet no one else was willing to pursue it. Cait, in particular, seemed to know something he didn't. Finally, Hawke nodded to her. "Go. Take the Lady."

Once she had left, Hawke lowered his lanky frame into a chair in one corner, positioning himself where he could comfortably watch Locke, the woman, and the door. His hand rested on the automatic he cradled in his lap. "Now who's going to tell me what the hell is going on?"

Keeping his hands where they could be seen, Locke settled onto the top of a blanket chest. "Shall I?" He directed the question at Michael.

"He'll never believe you. Hell, I'm not sure he'll believe me." Michael accepted the glass of water Christine poured for him. "Thank you." He sipped the water while she sat down beside the bed. "Hawke, I never told you what happened after we were separated."

It took him a moment to realize what Michael was talking about. "You mean Bolivia?"

"Yes. After the guards dragged me off."

No, Michael had never talked about it. Caitlin had, very briefly, and the little that she had said had been enough to keep Hawke from asking further. She had never actually used the word, but it was obvious that her husband had gotten to her just in time to keep her from being raped. "You don't need to tell me, Michael. Cait said enough... I've got a pretty good idea."

"No, you don't. You don't know the half of it. Moffet had her, and I don't even want to think about what he intended to do with her."

Maybe they _were_ drugging Michael. "That's impossible. I ought to know. Given the ordnance I wasted on him, Moffet's ashes must still be spread half-way across the Libyan desert."

"Hawke, you didn't kill him. I did, eight months ago at Norcom. I put two bullets in his heart, and two more into his brain. If you don't believe me, ask Cait when she gets back."

_No. That wasn't possible. It couldn't be._ "How?"

Michael was clearly exhausted. He looked over at Locke. "Go ahead. Tell him. Tell him all of it."

88888888

An hour later, Hawke hadn't moved. His fingers holding the automatic had gone numb_. He had gone __numb. _He wished they hadn't told him. It was bad enough that there was alien technology at Airwolf's heart, but this? He looked over at Michael. The agent had dozed off, as had Christine, sitting in the chair beside his bed. Quietly, Hawke stood and tucked his weapon back into its holster. He caught Locke's eye, and indicated the doorway. Locke preceded him into the kitchen.

"Shall I put on a pot of coffee?" the other man asked.

Hawke needed something a good deal stronger, but he knew that he would be flying soon. Coffee would have to do. "Yeah." He dropped into one of the chairs surrounding the kitchen table.

He hadn't forgiven Locke. Locke might not have been the one who blew up Santini Air, but indirectly, he was still responsible for the explosion. Beyond that, there was what he had done to Michael. "Are you sure there wasn't another way? Couldn't you have just flown him to the hospital?"

"There wasn't time." Locke turned on the coffee maker. "He would have died before I even got him into the helicopter."

"Maybe you should have let him."_ It might have been better._ Hawke hated himself for entertaining the thought, but it wouldn't go away. He understood, now, the look of horror he had seen on Caitlin's face.

"Hawke, he's your friend." There was more than a touch of anger in Locke's voice. "Regardless of what's in his blood, that hasn't changed. He's the same man who went to bat for you more times than either of us can count. Hell, he even went into Cambodia after your brother."

"Something that _you_ never bothered to tell me." He hadn't forgiven Locke for that, either.

"No, I didn't. Looking back, I regret that." The coffee finished perking, and Locke poured two cups, setting one in front of Hawke. "He was unconscious when I found him. _I_ made the decision. If nothing else, try to remember that. Don't blame him for what I did."

_It wasn't Michael's fault_. Whatever he had become, it wasn't by choice. Hawke tried to think about it from Michael's point of view – having something alien injected into him. _Something that was, for all practical purposes, alive._ Becoming some sort of – what was the word? _Cyborg._ "What does it feel like? Having... _that_... in your veins?" _Locke would know. He and Christine shared the same infection._

Locke joined him at the table. "Physically? There's nothing. At first, I was afraid Moffet had scammed me, that he'd just shot me up with water. You don't realize until you get hurt, and even then... It didn't really hit home until I watched a cut heal before my eyes."

Hawke heard what Locke wasn't saying. "And mentally?"

"It never bothered me, but then, I knew all along what I was getting into. I had a reason for doing it, and that was all that mattered. Christine... she had a hard time with it. I didn't tell her until she was back on her feet, and I suspect she thought I'd gone insane. I finally had to prove it to her. When I did..." his voice trailed off, and he looked away.

Hawke leaned back in his chair. "Why did you give Michael that serum?"

Locke looked up. "I told you. Because there are terrorists planning to use anthrax on Washington."

"No. That's what you told him. There's more to it than that." Hawke met Locke's gaze.

The former agent didn't answer for a long count, taking the time to finish his coffee before he spoke. "I've got enough blood on my hands. I'll be damned if I'll wear his, too."

88888888

Voices woke him, broken bits of sound and indistinguishable words that echoed from the kitchen. Michael looked over, expecting to find Christine where she had been when he dozed off. Instead, he found Caitlin slumped in the chair, bent forward, her arms pillowing her head where she rested it on the bed beside him. The position didn't look very comfortable.

He wasn't sure if she was actually asleep. If she was, he hated to wake her; he was certain that she hadn't gotten much rest while he was missing. "Cait?" he asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Eyes blinking open, she raised her head and gave him an uncertain, shaky smile. "Hi."

"Hi yourself." He tried to read her emotions, but couldn't. Whatever she was feeling, she was keeping it well hidden. Michael reached for her hand, twining his fingers with hers. "Are you okay?"

Caitlin's smile faded. "You're the one who was shot. Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

"I'm fine, or at least I will be. Give me a few days and I'll be good as new." He tried to keep his tone light, but he saw her cringe. There were tears forming in the corners of her eyes, threatening to spill down her cheeks. Tears she was desperately trying to hide from him. He didn't know how to answer those tears. "Did you bring Marella back with you?"

"Yeah." Caitlin bit at her lip. "I told her...I told her everything. I think they're trying to convince her that I haven't lost my mind." She changed the topic abruptly. "I completely scanned Marella's property. There was nothing. The place was clean."

"Good." Michael could tell that Cait wasn't ready to talk about what Locke had done, and he wasn't going to push her. "You brought my clothes?"

"Right here." She gestured to the small duffel on the dresser behind her. "This is the bag you had stashed in Airwolf. I checked - flightsuit, pants, shirt, shoes-"

Whatever else she might have added was interrupted as Marella joined them. "Michael," she acknowledged, then turned to Caitlin. "Cait, I need to examine him. I hate to ask, but would you wait in the kitchen?"

Caitlin leaned over and gave Michael a quick kiss on the cheek, then excused herself, closing the door behind her as she left them. Once she was gone, Marella set her medical bag down on the chair with a sigh, and tilted her head in the direction of the hallway. "Please tell me that they're suffering some sort of mass hallucination."

"I wish I could."

"It's all true, then? Moffet? Nanites?"

"Unfortunately."

She hesitated. "Caitlin said you killed him?"

Michael nodded once. "He's dead this time. I made damn sure of it."

"I can't say I'm sorry to hear that." Marella lowered the rail of the bed, then leaned across to check the IV. She was apparently satisfied by what she found. "So how do you feel?"

"Weak. 'Drained' might be a better word. Other than that, one hell of a lot better than I should."

"Locke's fiancée – Christine? She tells me you've refused pain meds." Marella unzipped her bag, then took out latex gloves, a stethoscope and blood pressure cuff. She snapped the gloves on with a practiced ease.

"It only hurts when I laugh." Michael's attempt at humor fell flat, even to his own ears, and he caught the scowl his former aide gave him. He shrugged. "You know how I hate that shit. The pain isn't that bad. The first day or so was rough, but now, until I move around, I'm mostly just damn sore."

Marella wrapped the cuff around his arm. "Shhh." He felt it inflate, watched her face as she listened. Finally she folded the cuff and put it back in her bag. "Any dizziness? Nausea?"

"Lightheaded when I move too fast. That's gradually getting better. I puked my guts out when I first woke up. Probably literally. It seemed to be mostly blood."

That got Marella's attention. "Fresh?"

"What I saw of it was clotted, nearly black. Smelled horrid."

Returning the cuff and stethoscope to her bag, she nodded her understanding. "Well, you're showing signs of blood loss and anemia, certainly not unexpected with the sort of internal bleeding you and Christine have described." She pulled a thermometer from her medical bag. "Let me take your temp."

He held the thermometer under his tongue and waited. When she checked it, her relief was obvious. "Normal."

"No infection?" Given what he'd gone through after Cambodia, it was the one possibility that worried him most.

"I'd say it's unlikely." She indicated the johnny he was wearing. "I'm going to need to pull this up."

Michael scowled, but edged sideways so she could work the gown out from beneath him. To his relief, she adjusted the blankets before tugging the gown upwards, exposing him as little as possible.

Marella ran light fingertips across his abdomen, frowning. "There's some distention – swelling, that is," she clarified.

He snorted. "You should have seen it yesterday. It felt like I was pregnant with twins."

"It's gone down, then?"

"Yeah." Michael raised his head to get a better look. He noticed that the bruising visible beyond the edge of the bandage was fading into a multicolored abstract. "Swelling is definitely going away. Color is getting better, too. This morning I was a nearly solid purple."

Marella reached for the tape that was securing the gauze. She hesitated. "Have you seen-?"

"Only when I was first hit."

"Are you sure you want to? If not, I can-"

"Don't be ridiculous." He had never been squeamish, even demanding a mirror so that he could examine the burns to his back after Red Star. _Although that time, he rather regretted looking._ Now, he didn't know quite what to expect, but knew it wouldn't be nearly that bad. "Go ahead."

She began to peel the tape away, and slowly pulled the dressing back. There was dried blood on it, more around the wound. Marella went to her bag and retrieved a package of towelettes. She used one to clear away the blood. "Well, I'll be damned."

Her words echoed his own thoughts. Despite the still livid bruising, once it had been cleaned, the wound itself was little more than a deep dimple, covered over by the shiny pink skin of a fresh scar. If anything, the bruises were a more accurate indication of how recently he had come so close to death. "Two and a half days." He did the math. "Sixty hours, give or take. It doesn't seem possible, does it?"

Marella had been staring, and she startled at his words. She looked up. "There's a quote that I can't quite remember. Something about advanced technology being mistaken for magic."

As appropriate as it might be, Michael couldn't recall the exact wording either. "It's by Clarke, I think."

"Could be," she answered, distracted. "I'm not sure I'd believe it if I hadn't seen the mangled slug Locke took out of you."

He looked up sharply. "Locke did _what_?"

His sharply voiced question brought Marella back from wherever her mind had wandered. "Sorry, I thought you knew. According to Locke, he thought you would heal faster if the bullet was removed. He...um...dug around with a pair of forceps until he found it."

Michael hadn't known. If he'd thought about it, he would have simply assumed the round was still lodged in his gut. He wished that she hadn't told him. _ Locke injecting him with nanoprobes was bad enough. Poking around in his intestines was even worse._

"There wasn't much left of the bullet. As deformed as it was, it must have done massive damage." Marella's words brought Michael out of his thoughts.

"I figured as much."

"At a guess, it tore the vena cava or one of the smaller arteries. If it had been the aorta, Locke wouldn't gotten to you in time."

He could tell that there was more that she wasn't saying. "And?"

Marella took her time forming an answer. "Even without the blood loss, it would have been bad." Shaking herself, she took the stethoscope from around her neck. She rubbed the diaphragm on her sleeve to warm it, then proceeded to listen to his chest. Gradually, she moved lower, working her way around his belly. Finally she straightened, removing the stethoscope. "Your heart and lungs are fine, and allowing for the swelling, bowel sounds are normal.."

"Are we done?" He doubted it. _She wouldn't let him off that easily._

"No." She found the control for the bed, and lowered it until he was flat on his back. "I want to check for rigidity and rebound tenderness. I need you to lie back. You'll be more comfortable if you bend your knees."

He did as she suggested, drawing his knees up so the soles of his feet were resting on the bed, grimacing as the motion pulled at his stomach. "I'm not going to enjoy this, am I?"

She had the decency to give him a sympathetic look. "Probably not."

Marella began well away from the fresh scar, fingers pressing firmly as she slowly moved across his stomach. It was uncomfortable – she was, after all, essentially poking at a giant bruise – but it wasn't nearly as bad as he had feared. He had just started to relax when her hands neared the wound, and he suddenly saw stars. "Shit!" he cursed, as much in surprise as in pain. "Damn. _That_ hurt."

"I'm sorry, Michael. I need to do this. Do you want me to give you a minute?"

That would only postpone the inevitable. "No. Just do what you have to and get it over with."

"I'll be as quick as I can," she promised. "Try not to tense up."

"Easy for you to say."

True to her words, Marella finished a few minutes later and raised the head of the bed. "That's it, I'm done." Adjusting his gown, she hesitated. "I can tape you back up again, if you want. There's no open wound, but it might feel better to have that support."

He gingerly lowered his knees, the abused muscles of his abdomen still protesting Marella's examination. The thought of any further prodding held little appeal. "No, leave it. If I can manage it, I'm going to get cleaned up and dressed in the morning." He pulled up the covers, then took a deep breath. "So what's the verdict?"

Marella moved her medical bag and sat down in the chair beside him, pulling off her gloves. "Well, based on where you were hit and how long it's been since, experience and education tells me that in a best-case scenario, you should be dying from peritonitis."

_He didn't have to ask what worst-case would be._ "But I'm not." It was more a statement than question.

"You're not showing any of the symptoms."

"In other words, in addition to keeping me from bleeding to death, the nanoprobes patched the holes in my intestines and cleaned up the mess."

Marella looked decidedly uncomfortable. "That's what it looks like, but I can't promise you that. If I had my way, I'd haul you off to the hospital for a full workup. Films and ultrasound at a minimum, probably exploratory surgery."

"None of which is going to happen." _Because his recovery would be impossible to explain, if for no other reason._

"I didn't think it would." She gave him something of an indulgent smile. "Michael, if you start running a fever, or feeling sick..."

"Yeah, I know." He hesitated. "How long will it take to get my strength back?"

"Locke could probably give you a better estimate than anything I could offer, but I don't think it will take long. Make sure you drink as much as you can. That will help bring your blood volume back to normal."

"What about getting rid of this?" He indicated the IV that Christine had reinstalled.

"Another two or three days certainly wouldn't hurt, but I know who I'm dealing with. As long as you keep up with the fluids, it could probably come out tomorrow."

As much as he hated being tethered to the IV, he could put up with one more night of it. "Marella, thank you."

"I wish there was something I could do for you, besides telling you to take it easy and rest – not that I really expect you to listen to that advice." Lips quirking, visibly fighting a smile, she stood. "I'm going to let you get some sleep, and I'm headed home to try and get a few hours myself. Hawke's offered me a lift. I think Cait intends to stay here."

"How was she, on the flight back?"

"Terrified. About the same way you're feeling."

"Am I that transparent?"

"I've known you a long time." This time, she did smile. "She'll deal with it, Michael. She loves you."

"No more than I love her."

Marella reached out and gave his arm a quick, reassuring squeeze. "We all care about you, Michael. Try to remember that, and for once, give yourself some time. Your skin may be just about healed, but the rest is going to take a little longer. You call me if you need me, okay?"

"I will."

Picking up her bag, Marella went out. It was perhaps ten minutes later that Caitlin reentered the room, just long enough that he was starting to doze off again. Her return woke him. "Did Marella go?" he asked her.

She nodded, sitting down on the edge of the bed beside him. "String took her home. He said he's going to get some sleep, and that he'd be back around noontime."

"Good. We'll have to figure out how we're going to handle this. I assume they filled you in about the anthrax?"

"Yeah. They brought me up to speed."

Caitlin had been crying, her eyes were still puffy and red. He reached for her hand. "I'm sorry, Cait. You have to know I never intended this."

Somehow, that had been the wrong thing to say. Tears began to run down her cheeks. "I know. I know you didn't. You had the chance when we came back..." Her tears turned into a torrent. "It's all my fault, and I'm so sorry."

_Her fault? How could she blame herself?_ "Shhh." He pulled her to him, wrapping his arm around her. "You had nothing to do with this."

"I shouldn't have gone to the mall. I should have stayed home." She twisted away enough to meet his eyes. "If I hadn't gone after those stupid sandals, I would have been there with you. It wouldn't have been two against one. You wouldn't have gotten shot."

_She was blaming herself for that?_ He pulled her back down against him, lips brushing her hair. "Don't, Cait. Please, don't. None of this is your fault. If anything, it was my own stupidity. I should have called Hawke and asked him to bring the Lady. If we'd been in Airwolf, we could have scanned the site, and they never would have gotten the drop on us."

"But-"

"No buts. If you'd been there, we might have both been hit." _He never would have forgiven himself if Caitlin had taken a bullet meant for him._

"I'm not ready to lose you." Her voice was so choked with emotion he could barely make out the words. "Does being glad that Locke gave you that serum make me a horrible person?"

_How could she think that? _"Of course not. It will be okay, I promise."

"You don't hate me for being selfish?"

"For wanting to keep me around? How could I? Don't be ridiculous. If anything, I suppose I'm flattered." Michael tried to lighten her mood, and succeeded in getting a quick snort of amusement from her. He turned serious again. "Cait, this may not have been something I would have chosen, but Locke did what he thought he needed to do. Because of it, I'm still here with you, so I guess it's not such a terrible thing after all."

"You really mean that?"

"Of course I mean it." As he said the words, he realized that he did mean them. "I love you, and I don't want to leave you. Thanks to Locke – and whatever it was that crashed in Roswell – I'm not going to, not today, at least. It's not so bad, Cait. It just...it just takes a while to get used to the idea."

"Well, you should have plenty of time." She smiled up at him.

"Yeah, I should, shouldn't I?" He stroked her shoulder. "Come to bed with me."

"Michael, you can't..."

"I know. I just want you here next to me."

"Christine offered me the couch in the living room." She dried her eyes on her sleeve.

"The living room is too far away." He released his hold on her, and eased himself closer to the far side of the narrow bed. "Cait, this...this scares the living daylights out of me." The words escaped his lips before he could stop them, leaving Michael surprised by his own candor. "I need you here."

Caitlin bit her lip. "You're sure I'm not going to hurt you?"

"Not unless you knee me in the stomach."

She still hesitated. "Is there anything I can get for you first?"

"The only thing I need is you."

In answer, she stood to remove her boots, and placed her weapon on the dresser. Cait turned off the light, then started to pull back the covers, still wearing her flightsuit. "You're not planning to sleep in _that_?" Michael asked, fingers brushing the gray fabric.

"It's better than what you're wearing," she teased, "Although I have to admit, that gown _is_ mostly your favorite color."

"Hey, it's airy, but comfortable." It felt good to kid with her. _It felt normal._ "A hell of a lot more comfortable than your flightsuit, I promise you that." He ran his hand along her arm. "Take that damn thing off."

"You think I'm going to get naked _here_? We're not exactly alone." The coming dawn brightened the room just enough for him to see her expression, somewhere between amused and appalled.

"Locke and Christine are engaged. I would imagine they both know enough to knock."

She hesitated for a long moment. "They'd better." She unzipped the flightsuit and slipped it off, stripping down to undershirt and panties. "If either one of them comes wandering in here..." Caitlin crawled into the bed, then pulled the covers over them.

"I'm dead?" He couldn't resist turning her threat into a joke.

She snuggled carefully against his side. "You may wish you were."

88888888

Hawke laid back against the pillows, his hands on Marella's hips, moving in rhythm with her. She was tight and hot around him, her muscles clenching, head thrown back, nails digging almost painfully into his shoulders.

Her back arched and she spasmed, sending him crashing to his own release. Marella rode it until it was over, then collapsed beside him, gasping for breath.

It wasn't usually like this. What they shared was ever never particularly romantic, but usually the sex was comfortable and familiar, like a favorite pair of worn jeans. This had been desperate and frantic, raw passion meant to distract both of them from the evening's revelations. It might have worked, if they'd gotten stinking drunk first and passed out into oblivion after, but neither of them could afford that luxury.

Outside, the dawning sun was highlighting the sky with streaks of pink and gold. They should both be sleeping, but Hawke was too tightly wound to sleep. He suspected she was, as well. He turned his head toward her. "Do you have to go in to the office?"

"No. Luckily, I was already going to take today off. I had planned to spend some time catching up on paperwork, but it can wait."

Hawke looked away from her and licked his lips. "I told Locke that he should have let Michael die."

She propped herself up on her elbow. "String! Michael is your friend."

"That's what Locke said, and I know that, but..." Hawke fought down the bile that threatened to rise in his throat. He hated Locke; he hated what Locke had done. "God, it gives me the creeps. I'd rather be dead than have that crap floating in my bloodstream."

"Michael wasn't given that choice. I'm glad he wasn't."

Hawke was quiet for awhile, his mind running through possibilities. "The Firm's not going to believe any of it, are they? Especially that terrorists with an alien immortality potion are targeting DC?"

She shook her head. "I doubt it. Not without proof."

"In other words, not unless he outs himself."

"Knowing Michael? That's exactly what he'll do."

Telling the committee that he had alien nanites in his blood would be a death sentence - or worse. Locke had described some of Moffet's experiments. The Firm might be less sadistic, but Hawke held no illusions that they would be any less thorough. "I can't let him do that."

"So what other option is there?"

Hawke let out a long sigh. "Damned if I know."

88888888

Caitlin woke to the faint aroma of coffee. She gently disentangled herself from her still sleeping husband. Careful not to disturb him, she stood and pulled her flightsuit back on; she could shower and change later. Barefoot, she eased the door open and headed down the hallway toward the kitchen.

Christine was already there, just finishing a plate of scrambled eggs and sausage. "Can I fix you some breakfast?" she asked.

"No, thank you." Caitlin knew she should eat, but runaway emotions had her stomach tied in knots. "I will take a cup of coffee, if that's alright?"

"Let me get it for you." Christine started to rise.

Caitlin waved the other woman back into her seat. "No need, I've got it." Crossing to the sink, she took a cup from the strainer and poured the dark, hot beverage. There was cream on the table. "Jason's not here?" She was surprised at his absence.

"In the workshop out back. He's cutting some boards to repair the door."

"Oh. I'm sorry about that. String certainly does know how to make an entrance, doesn't he?" Cait joined the other woman at the table.

"I'm not sure I blame him. All things considered, I can certainly understand his anger at Jason." Christine glanced toward the bedroom. "Michael still sleeping?"

"I managed to sneak out here without waking him." Caitlin stared at her coffee without seeing it.

The silence stretched until Christine broke it. "Penny for your thoughts?"

Caitlin glanced up and caught Christine's sympathetic gaze. "You'd be paying too much. My mind's a jumbled mess. I'm not even sure _what_ I'm thinking. A part of me wants to believe that last night was some crazy nightmare. Another part...I guess I'm just relieved."

"Relieved?"

"Michael left me a note, but then he didn't come home. String and I started searching, and we couldn't find him. All I could picture was his helicopter in a million pieces at the bottom of a ravine. I was afraid he was dead." She let out a long breath. "I nearly lost him once. Eight years ago, before I'd even admitted to myself that I loved him. I spent a week at his bedside, not knowing if he was going to live. The thought of going there again..." Caitlin felt herself shudder.

Christine reached out and covered Cait's hand with her own. "He's going to be okay."

"I know. And chances are, he's going to stay that way for a very long time."

"That's a good thing, isn't it?" Christine asked, her confusion evident.

"Of course it is. It's just... He's older than I am, by sixteen years. As much as I've tried not to think about that, it's always been in the back of my mind. It always scared me. In some ways it's a relief that I don't have to worry about it any more." She bit her lip. "Only, now it's all turned around. He's the one who has to look at me and wonder how long... I know how that feels, and I don't think I can do it to him."

88888888

Michael opened his eyes to confirm what he had sensed upon waking, that Caitlin was no longer beside him. The bright sun streaming through the window suggested why; it was at least mid-morning.

He used the remote to raise the head of the bed, then pulled covers and gown aside so he could examine his stomach. Overnight, the swelling was gone and the bruising had faded even further, the once purple stain now mostly a brownish yellow. The fading colors were an echo of how he felt, still as wrung out as if he was just getting over a bad case of the flu, but regaining strength almost by the hour.

Moving carefully, he pushed himself up until he was sitting on the edge of the bed._ He needed a shower. A shower and some clothes._ Hospital gowns might be convenient and fairly comfortable, but once one was up and moving around, they were downright embarrassing.

Michael started to ease himself out of bed. He stopped when he realized that the IV bottle he was still attached to hung on its far side. The tubing wasn't going to allow him to go far. He considered that. _To hell with it._ The IV was coming out. Marella had - however reluctantly – agreed that it could be discontinued.

Knowing Christine would be less than pleased, Michael removed the tape and tugged the line free. He watched as the bleeding stopped almost instantly, something he'd been too preoccupied with Hawke's arrival to really notice the previous evening. Momentarily, he assumed it was because he'd already lost so much blood, but then the truth abruptly dawned on him. _It was the nanites, sealing the vein. _Sighing,Michael got to his feet. Grateful to be alone, he didn't try to hide the grimace as he stood. Laying in bed wasn't bad, but moving around still hurt like hell. _Becoming an alien cyborg might be more appealing if the damned nanites would hurry up and fix that._ Picking up the duffel Caitlin had brought, he made his way slowly into the bathroom.

Slipping off the gown, he stepped into the shower. The hot spray felt good against his skin. He leaned against the tile, letting the water beat down over him. Above its steady tempo, he heard the bathroom door open.

"Michael? Are you okay?" The voice came from the other side of the shower curtain. _Caitlin's voice._

"Yeah, I'm fine," he lied. _He was still a long way from fine._ What his body wanted most was to turn around and go back to bed, but he couldn't afford himself that luxury. There were terrorists preparing to dump anthrax on the nation's capitol. _That had to be his priority. _

"In that case, would you like some company?"

He couldn't help but smile. "What's keeping you?"

"Just let me get out of this." He heard the sounds of a zipper, and the rumple of clothing being removed. A moment later the curtain pulled aside far enough for her to slip through. "I heard the water running," she said, by way of explanation, "I thought I'd – oh!"

Michael followed the direction of her gaze. She stared at the fresh scarring. Despite the heat of the water cascading around her, she was trembling. He reached out and pulled her to him. "It's okay. In a couple weeks, I doubt if you'll even be able to find the mark."

"I almost lost you," she whispered, her voice barely rising above the sound of the falling water.

"You didn't. You're not going to."

"You can't promise me that." Cait's fingertips trailed down his breastbone, her touch gossamer light as if she feared she would hurt him. "Even now. Nanoprobes or not, all it would take is a bullet to the heart. You managed to kill Moffet."

"I'll be careful, Cait. Don't worry, I intend to be here for a long time." As he said the words, their meaning sunk in. _He would probably outlive her by decades, if not centuries._ He tried to keep that revelation off of his face. It wasn't something he wanted to think about, and it wasn't something he wanted Caitlin to consider, either.

She looked up into his eyes, chewing her lip, and he wondered how successful he'd been at hiding his thoughts. "Michael," she said, "I...there's something I need to tell you."

"And that is?"

"I-" Whatever she'd been about to say broke off as she cocked her head, listening.

He heard it, too. "That's Airwolf." From the sound, Hawke hadn't bothered to enter suppression mode.

"I guess we should finish up here and get dressed."

"Yeah." They were going to have to decide how best to meet the anthrax threat, and Michael wasn't sure that there were any good answers. He turned to Caitlin as he shut the water off. "What did you start to tell me?"

She opened the shower curtain and reached for a towel. "Later. It's nothing that can't wait."

88888888

Hawke landed in the same clearing he had used the night before. He climbed from Airwolf, scowling as he slipped his automatic into its holster. Locke might be trying to prevent an anthrax attack on the capitol, but he still didn't trust the man as far as he could throw him.

The door was open as Hawke approached the cabin, and he saw that Locke was working on the frame, repairing the damage done the night before. With a nod of acknowledgment, Locke stepped aside to allow him entry. He found Christine inside, seated at the kitchen table.

She started to rise. "Good morning, Mr. Hawke. Can I offer you a late breakfast?"

He waved her back into her chair, fighting down the revulsion he felt at what was in her veins. Other than her taste in men, Christine seemed decent enough. How had she ended up in the middle of this whole mess? _Yet another reason to hate Jason Locke._ Hawke chose a seat where he could keep an eye on Locke without having to look directly at him. "No thanks. And it's either String or just Hawke. No 'mister'."

She smiled warmly. "String, then. There's hot coffee if you'd like some."

"Maybe later." He'd already had three cups. Despite not falling asleep until dawn, he'd been up for hours. Nightmares had haunted the little rest he had gotten, dark dreams of Michael morphing into something that was more machine than man. He pushed those images out of his mind. "Michael and Cait still sleeping?"

"No, we're not." Hawke looked up to see the agent coming toward him. Obviously still in pain, Michael was moving slowly with careful steps. He was, however, dressed in a white shirt and pants, and walking unaided. Michael glanced toward the stove. "Is that fresh coffee I smell?"

Christine rose and headed toward the refrigerator. "Yes, but you're not getting any of it until you eat something." She took eggs from a carton then turned on the stove. "Now sit before you fall down."

"Yes, ma'am," Michael agreed, his tone one of good-natured ribbing. "I hope you're not making all of that for me." He lowered himself gingerly into a chair. Someone else might not have seen the way he flinched as he sat down, but Hawke had known him too long to miss it.

"I'm hoping to tempt Caitlin – and maybe String, if I can."

"Tempt me with what?" Cait asked as she joined them, flipping damp hair from her eyes.

"Sausage and eggs."

"I'm not-" she started to protest.

Christine indicated Michael. "You need to set a good example."

Caitlin sighed. "What can I do to help?"

"Glasses and plates in the cupboard, silverware in the drawer beneath." Christine pointed with the spatula. "There's juice in the fridge."

Hawke shook his head, but Cait set a place for him anyhow. "Jason?" she asked, turning toward the doorway.

"No thanks, already ate." Hawke intentionally looked away from the source of the voice. He heard the door opening and closing several times. "There, good as new. Just let me take these tools back to the shed." Footsteps receded.

Caitlin sat down beside her husband, and Christine brought the pan to the table, splitting the food three ways. Hawke murmured a quiet word of gratitude and picked at the eggs, despite his lack of appetite. He noted that Cait appeared similarly disinterested; Michael, on the other hand, was wolfing down his meal. "How do you feel?" Hawke asked him. Talking to Michael was awkward and uncomfortable. He couldn't ask the questions he really wanted answered. _Besides healing his wounds, what else had the nanites done to him? What had they done to his mind?_ Hawke had finally come to see Michael as a friend. _He wasn't sure he could still think of him that way._

Either failing to notice or intentionally ignoring Hawke's unease, Michael shrugged. "Still damn sore and a little shaky, but I'm not about to complain."

_Considering that he would be dead, if Locke hadn't... _ Hawke wasn't going to let his mind go there. Not now, at least. They had a more immediate problem. "The two scientists Locke mentioned. What do you know about them?"

Michael shook his head. "Can't say I've ever heard of either of them, although that's not surprising. For the most part, the Firm isn't involved with biological weaponry. I have heard of Sverdlovsk, though. That place is well known by the intelligence community. The facility there had an accident back in the 70's. Something got loose, and they managed to infect a number of the local populace with a virulent strain of anthrax. At the time, our sources indicated at least a hundred dead. I suspect the true number was probably higher."

"You really think they're planning to hit Washington?"

"It's entirely possible. If they have a viable method of aerial dispersal..." Michael didn't finish the thought.

Hawke scowled. "Yeah." Locke could be mistaken, or he could be lying through his teeth, but they couldn't afford to take that chance.

Michael pushed his empty plate away and eyed Christine expectantly. "I take it you'd like coffee?" she asked, smiling as she retrieved the pot.

"Thank you," he said, as she poured. "Hawke, when we're done here, you can fly me to Knightsbridge. I'll brief Zeus with what we know, he can inform the committee and we'll go from there."

"Just what are you planning to tell him? That some crazy Iraqi scientist that escaped the destruction of Norcom might be trying to wipe out DC?" Hawke asked. _It sounded insane, even to his ears._ Christine caught his attention, indicating an empty cup. Hawke nodded his acceptance, and she filled the cup. "Thanks."

"Damned if I know," Michael answered. "When we came back from Bolivia my official report resembled 'a chunk of Swiss cheese,' as Zeus put it. Off the record, I told him a few things that weren't in the report – among them the fact that Moffet had survived Libya, and was responsible for building the Fennecs."

"You didn't tell him about the serum?" Locke joined them, sitting down across the table from Hawke.

"No. I had no desire to open that Pandora's box. You, better than anyone, know exactly what someone who's desperate enough will do to get their hands on it. Can you imagine what would happen if its existence became widely known?"

"I don't want to think about it. There are times when I think it might have been better if I'd never known." Locke looked up at his fiancée as she finished clearing away the dishes. "Sorry, Chris."

"Don't apologize. You think I haven't had the same thought? As wonderful as it is to be healthy again, it wasn't worth the cost." Coming to stand behind him, her hands went to Locke's shoulders.

_Hawke couldn't forget that a part of that cost had been his brother's life._ "So how did you explain Moffet's survival?" he asked.

"I said that there had been alien technology involved. Given that Zeus refused to admit that anything other than a weather balloon landed in Roswell, he wasn't any position to inquire about precisely _what_ sort of technology."

_Alien technology._ It was true, in a manner of speaking. "You're going to tell him the rest of it?" He wanted to be sure Michael had thought it through.

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to. The fact that the terrorists have access to the nanoprobes is likely to have a significant impact on both their selection of target and mode of delivery. At a minimum, they don't have to worry about dosing themselves. They might also intend to ransom it off as a cure."

"So Pandora's box gets opened after all." Hawke said, scowling.

"Unfortunately I don't see an alternative."

"Assuming that Zeus believes you, and doesn't just have you committed."

"I'll take a sample with me, if I may?" Michael glanced toward Locke, who gave an answering nod. "And if he still thinks I've lost my mind, I can always prove to him that I haven't."

Before Hawke could respond to that, Locke did. "You do that, and you'll earn yourself a one way trip to Groom Lake."

"Groom Lake? Area 51?" Caitlin, who had been quietly picking at her eggs, looked up sharply to ask the question. "Why would-?"

Locke snorted. "If the Firm finds out about what's in his blood, he'll never see the light of day again."

"Locke!" There was no mistaking the threat in Michael's voice.

"Michael, he's only telling it like it is." As much as he hated to do it, Hawke found himself agreeing with Locke. "Those nanites terrify me, and I _know_ you. How do you think the committee will react when they find out that your blood is full of them? They're going to lock you up and throw away the key."

"Are they right? Would the Firm do that?" Caitlin had turned to face her husband, eyes wide with fear.

While Michael might try to shield Cait from the truth, Hawke didn't think that he would actually lie to her, so he wasn't surprised by the agent's quiet answer. "Most likely."

"But once they realized that you weren't a threat, they'd release you, right?" It was obvious that she still didn't understand.

Michael took her hand. "Cait, I was deputy director, and after that I worked on appropriations for dozens of top secret projects. I know too much. The Firm sent Zebra Squad after me twice because they thought I might have been compromised by a foreign government. How do you think they'd react if they knew that I'd been infected by something from the other side of the galaxy?"

"Michael, you can't..." She latched onto his hand as if it was the only way to keep him there with her.

"I'll do it." Locke said. "I'm the one who opened this can of worms, I should be the one to deal with the consequences."

"I appreciate the offer, but it won't work. I'm going to have a hard enough time getting them to believe me. There's no way you'd make it through the front door, much less convince them of any of this. Zeus wants a piece of your hide worse than Hawke does. The only option I have is to be persuasive enough that Zeus believes me without my having to resort to slitting my wrist with his letter opener."

"No." Hawke set his cup down.

"No?" Michael raised an eyebrow.

"No," Hawke repeated. "You get yourself locked up at Groom Lake, and even Airwolf hasn't got the firepower to blast you out of there."

"So what's the alternative? Let the terrorists take out Washington? You know I can't do that, Hawke." Michael scowled.

"Neither can I, but telling Zeus and the committee about the serum isn't the answer, even if you somehow manage to do it without outing yourself. The only solution is to go back to Bolivia, determine exactly what these people are up to, then find them and put a stop to their plans."

Michael frowned. "What if we can't?"

"Worst case scenario, the most we've lost is a little time. You can still go to Zeus."

The agent seemed to be considering it. "It's the best answer," Caitlin told him, her fear still evident.

"Alright. We'll go to Bolivia," Michael agreed, finishing the last of his coffee.

"No, Cait and I will go to Bolivia. _You_ are in no condition to go anywhere."

"Hawke, you're looking at roughly a fifteen hour flight. I might not be up to storming the facility, but I can at least do some of the flying."

"Michael, I remember when, not too long ago, you were worried about being a liability. Well, right now, you're a liability. You can barely walk. You're not going."

"How would you feel about taking me with you?" Locke asked. "I can fly Airwolf, and I know where Zaid's base of operations is – or at least I know where it was as of a few months ago. Michael can stay here with Christine."

Hawke's first thought was to refuse. He still hated Locke, for too many reasons to count, and he still didn't trust him. It was, though, probably the best solution. "Get your gear."

88888888

After stops for fuel and supplies and a quick call to Marella to ask her to look after Buddy, they headed south, crossing into Mexican airspace just before five o'clock in the afternoon. Locke was in the co-pilot's seat, flying. As much as he detested the man, Hawke had to admit that Locke was a capable pilot. It really didn't come as a surprise; St. John had lauded Locke's skills when he first began flying with him.

"Hawke?"

He jerked to full awareness, realizing that Airwolf's engines had lured him into what had been, thankfully, a dreamless sleep. "Yeah?"

"Salina Cruz coming up."

Hawke checked the maps. As Locke had indicated, they were less than fifteen minutes out. "I'll take her."

Over the years, Hawke had identified multiple locations where he could obtain fuel without anyone asking questions. Some were run by people that he had helped in some way, others simply places where the American dollar ruled. The tiny, unmarked airport near Salina Cruz was the latter. Not in the mood to dicker, Hawke forked over what was probably twice the going rate for the tank of fuel, then moved into the back of the helicopter, trading places with Caitlin. She took over the controls, and they headed for their next fuel stop in Columbia.

It was well past sun-up and Hawke was flying when they reached Cochabamba. He chanced a low level pass. Norcom, he was pleased to see, was a picture of total destruction. He made a mental note to congratulate Michael on the job he'd done. The complex had been taken apart with an almost surgical precision.

Hawke glanced to his left. "So where's this place you were being held?"

"Head east, and slightly north." Locke was alternately watching the scans and the terrain below. "Not more than twenty or thirty miles."

It took them a little while to find the right place. From the air, at least, it didn't look like much. A handful of ramshackle buildings set at the very edge of what passed for a town. Scans showed that three of the buildings were devoid of life, the other lightly occupied. Hawke found a deserted spot far enough away that they wouldn't be detected, and set Airwolf down.

Pulling off his helmet, Hawke turned in his seat. "Looks pretty quiet. Any suggestions?"

"If they're planning an attack on the capitol in a couple weeks, it's likely they've moved most of their operations to the Washington area. They might have left something behind that could pinpoint a location." Locke offered.

"You think we should ransack the place."

Locke shrugged. "It's worth a shot."

Twisting his head, Hawke looked toward the woman seated behind them. "Cait?"

"Jason's right. Let's start by searching the buildings. We might get lucky."

Hawke considered it. Although he didn't like agreeing with Locke, he couldn't come up with anything better. He didn't, however, want to try it during the daylight. The place was too exposed, and it was anyone's guess how the locals would react. "We'll wait until it gets dark," he said. While he hated the delay, it would allow them to get some rest. "Locke, come on, give me a hand with the camo netting."

88888888

Michael rose from the table and took his plate and silverware to the sink. Putting the leftovers away, Christine turned to look over her shoulder at him. "I can get those."

"I'm not helpless, and at best, I'm something of an uninvited guest. There's no reason you should be doing all the work." He began running water. "The least I can do is wash a few dishes."

"You should be resting."

"I'm tired of resting." The previous afternoon, after Hawke and the others had departed, he had gone back to bed, not getting up again until it was time for supper. Afterwards, he had watched television with Christine, stretched out on the couch at her insistence. "Don't worry, I'm fine." While that wasn't entirely true, it wasn't too much of an exaggeration. Walking was still a little uncomfortable, and he'd quickly learned that twisting or bending was a very bad idea, but there had been a number of times in his life when he'd felt a hell of a lot worse.

Her frown said that she didn't approve. "You need to take it easy. Think of it as having a car held together with duct tape and baling wire. While it may run, there's a very good chance that the first time you hit a pothole a wheel will fall off."

He knew she was right, but he had always pushed himself, often harder than he should. Michael hated being waited on. He wasn't willing to give in. "It's only a couple things."

Christine's expression didn't soften, but she didn't argue, instead bringing the remainder of the dishes over to the sink. "Do those pants fit okay?"

"Fine, thanks." She had loaned him a set of Locke's sweats. While they weren't something that he would normally wear, they were looser and less constricting than the clothes Caitlin had retrieved from Airwolf.

Michael finished washing the dishes, leaving them in the drainer to dry. "I don't suppose I can convince you to go take a nap?" Christine asked him.

"Not a chance." Perhaps his body could use the rest, but he couldn't handle another minute in bed. That morning he had even considered the idea of going out for a walk, but one look out the window had changed his mind. The cabin was located at the top of the ridge, with only a steeply angled dirt driveway leading up to it. A walk would mean either hiking through the woods or navigating that incline. He knew he wasn't up to either. "If you'd like, I suppose we could see what's on television?" Michael asked, hoping it would help to distract him. He was trying not to let his mind wander to Cait and the others, and what they might find in Bolivia.

"If it will get you to sit down." Christine started toward the living room, with Michael following her.

The rap at the door seemed shockingly loud against the still background of the quiet mountain. A moment later, it was repeated, even more sharply.

The sound startled both Michael and Christine. He recovered faster than she did, raising a finger to his lips, then indicating that she should duck into the other room where she would be out of sight. Michael flattened himself against the wall, angling so he could peek between the curtains without being seen. He returned to Christine and bent his head to whisper into her ear. "Forest ranger?" He let the question in his voice convey his skepticism. Michael had neither spotted a vehicle outside nor heard one approach, which raised his suspicions even further.

Her confusion was evident, and her words were so soft he could barely hear them. "The property does abut the federal wilderness area, but I don't know why...?"

There was more pounding at the door. "Hang on, I'm coming," Michael called out, then dipped his head to Christine's ear again. "Stay here."

He made sure she was out of sight before going to the door and opening it. Slouching against the door, he made a pretense of yawning as if he'd just awakened from a nap. "Yeah? What is it? How can I help you?"

The ranger was wearing dark sunglasses. He had a holster hanging on his right side and a portable radio on his left. "We've got reports that someone has been logging in the preserve." He stepped sideways, slipping past Michael and walking into the kitchen uninvited. "You know anything about that?"

"Logging? I certainly haven't heard anything," Michael answered, playing along. _His suspicions were __confirmed._ _Uniform or not, the man wasn't a ranger._ His shirt was a size too small, pulling against the buttons, and his pants were a good three inches too short. Any chance that the clothing might simply have shrunk was disproven by the weapon he carried holstered on his hip, a Makarov. _American forest __rangers didn't carry Russian side arms._

"Mind if I take a look around?" the supposed ranger asked, pulling off his sunglasses and shoving them into his shirt pocket.

"Go ahead." It was possible that the man didn't know exactly who he was looking for. Michael wondered if he could bluff his way out of this.

"You alone here?"

"Afraid so." Too late, Michael remembered the dishes in the drainer. Two plates, two cups. He hoped the ranger wouldn't notice.

"That chopper out back yours?"

There was no way to deny it. "Yeah." _It was unfortunate that Locke hadn't thought to hide the helicopter._

"Nice bird. Looks expensive." The words sounded at least vaguely accusatory.

Michael shrugged, trying to make it look casual. "Gets me where I need to go."

"You work?"

"Writer. That's why I come up here, to get some work done."

The ranger snorted. "And I suppose that's my clue to get out of your hair." He circled back to the door.

"Well, everything appears to be in order, Mister... I'm afraid I didn't get your name?"

Michael had no idea what name Locke had used to procure the cabin, only that it was exceedingly unlikely that he had used his own. He pulled a name from the air. "Mitchner. Jeff Mitchner."

"Mr. Mitchner, then. I thank you for your cooperation." Turning away, the man reached out with his left hand as if to open the door, and for a moment, Michael allowed himself to hope that perhaps he was simply going to leave. That hope was dashed as the ranger aborted the motion and instead went for his Makarov, spinning toward Michael as he pulled it from its holster.

_Shit!_ Michael lashed out, backhanding his adversary's arm. The unexpected impact was enough to throw off the ranger's aim, the bullet missing its target and instead pinging off the sink. Michael grabbed for the first thing he saw, the frying pan that Christine had used to cook breakfast. Ignoring the pain brought by the sudden movement, he slammed it into the man's weapon, eliciting a loud curse and sending the gun skittering across the floor, well out of reach of either of them.

Shaking off the impact, the ranger answered with a round-house kick. It hit Michael in the side, doubling him over. Before he could recover, he was hit again, knocking him to his knees and sending the pan flying. He heard the man laugh and saw the booted foot coming toward him. He tried to roll out of the way, but couldn't move quickly enough. The kick caught him squarely in the stomach, sending an explosion of pain surging through him.

The laugh came again, low and sadistic. "You liked that, did you?"

Michael knew what was coming, and he pulled his knees towards his chin, trying to protect his abdomen. It didn't help; the boot connected, and he felt something deep inside give in a way it shouldn't.

Two shots sounded in quick succession, entirely too close for comfort. The ranger crumpled to the floor. Michael fought to stay conscious. _His gut was on fire. If anything, it was worse than being shot._ "Michael?" Christine was on her knees beside him, the Makarov still in her hand. "Are you okay?"

"No," he hissed through clenched teeth. He slid one hand inside his waistband, relieved to find the skin unbroken although already swelling. Michael spared a quick glance toward the body splayed beside him. Christine shots had both hit the supposed ranger in the center of his chest, most likely in the heart. _Either she was damn lucky, or Locke had taught her to handle a gun._ He wasn't going to worry about that now. "Help me up."

She hesitated. "You shouldn't-"

He cut her off. "I don't have a choice." Michael gestured toward the ranger's body. "You see that radio? When he doesn't report in, we're going to have more company."

"Oh hell!" Christine tucked the weapon into a pocket and reached over to pull a chair close. With one arm braced on it and Christine lifting on the other side, he manged to stand, wobbling on legs that were already turning to rubber. As he did, they heard the ranger's radio squawk.

A burst of static, and then, "Henry, come in." A pause. "Henry, come in, damn it!" A longer hesitation. "Henry?"

Michael met Christine's gaze. Whoever was at the other end of that radio call could be an hour away, or they could be five minutes out. He staggered to the table and leaned heavily on it. "Get whatever you need," he told her. "We've got to go."

She started toward the bedroom, then hesitated. "You should sit."

He winced as his stomach cramped, adding another layer to the pain that coursed through him. "If I do, I won't get back up. That bastard tore everything loose again. I'm bleeding inside, Christine. I can feel it."

A look of fear flashed across her face. "I'll be as fast as I can." She disappeared into the other room, and he heard her rummaging through drawers.

It felt as if she was taking forever, but he knew that in reality it wasn't more than a scant few minutes before she returned, a knapsack slung over her shoulder. "Ready," she said.

"Help me out to Junior." He remembered that she didn't know their nickname for Airwolf's look-alike. "The chopper."

"Can you fly?" she asked, even as she moved to assist him.

Michael glanced towards the body littering the kitchen floor. "I have to. It's either that or wait till his friends show up." Locke's car was still at the test site, and the ranger's vehicle had to be parked somewhere down the mountain. There was no way he could go looking for it, and he wasn't about to let Christine go alone.

"We'll go out the back door, it's closer." She wrapped her arm around him, and he leaned heavily on her as she led him through the house.

Outside, it took what strength he had left to get into the helicopter. She circled and climbed into the co-pilot's seat as he started the rotor turning. "You've got everything?" He tried not to grimace as he reached for the controls.

"I think so." She looked at him with concern. "Michael, I brought morphine. If it will help..."

"I can't." He knew how he reacted to the drug. Some people might be able function under its influence, but there was no way he could fly with that in his system. "Not now. Once we land."

"Where are we going?"

He hadn't thought that far ahead. All he had thought about was getting off the mountain before anyone came looking for their missing man. Now, he considered it. They needed somewhere safe. _Even more importantly, it had to be somewhere close. _ He pulled on the collective, the motion sending another sharp wave of pain washing through him. _Somewhere real close. _He thought about where they were and what was nearby, and made a decision. "The Lair." He turned Junior toward the northwest.

"The Lair?"

"It's where they used to keep Airwolf. We don't use it any more, but Hawke keeps it stocked for emergencies and there's a security system." _This certainly counted as an emergency._ "It's only fifteen or twenty minutes from here." _He could hold on that long. He had to, he didn't have a choice._

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Just keep me talking." Shock was setting in from the blood loss. Darkness encroached the edges of his vision, threatening to pull him under. It would be too easy to let the pulse of the rotors lull him into unconsciousness.

"How did they find us?"

"I don't know." Hawke, Cait and Locke were in Airwolf. The only other person who knew where they were was Marella. Momentarily, he considered the possibility they might have gotten to her. _No. He knew Marella, and she knew what was at stake. No matter what, she never would have betrayed them._ They didn't find out from her. "Locke left his car at the Redwolf site?"

"If that's what you call it. Wherever it was that he went to meet you." She hesitated. "You think it was the car?"

"Maybe."

"It wasn't registered in Jason's name, or to our address. They shouldn't have been able to trace it back-" Christine suddenly fell silent.

"What?"

"There's a little general store at the foot of the mountain. I think I left one of their bags in the car to use for trash. They must have- Dear God, Michael, I'm sorry."

It made sense, and would explain the ruse with the ranger uniform. They hadn't been sure of which house they were looking for. "Don't, Christine. They wanted Locke bad enough. One way or another, they would have eventually found us."

"They can't just be after blood, can they?"

"This is about their plans for Washington. They must think he's a threat. It confirms we're on the right track." Michael bit down on his lip as a particularly powerful spasm tore at him.

She didn't miss it. "Are you alright?"

_No. He wasn't alright._ Even though he felt like he was freezing, sweat was running down his back. His breathing was fast and shallow, pulse racing. He fought down the worsening nausea, knowing he couldn't spare the strength it would cost him to be sick. As much as he might detest them, he knew the nanites were the only thing keeping him conscious, and they were fighting a loosing battle. With every passing moment, it was getting harder and harder to concentrate. "We're almost there. That rock formation up ahead." As he spoke, he forced himself to reach forward, flipping the switches that would shut down the Lair's security system.

"Behind it?"

"Inside it." Michael brought Junior to a hover over the opening. He tried to blink away the dizziness. When he had learned to fly Airwolf, Hawke had brought him here and made him repeat this descent at least fifty times. After the first few successful attempts, it had seemed like a waste of time and fuel. Now, he found himself silently thanking Hawke for the practice. "Hang on."

They dropped slowly into the natural cavity. Finally, Junior settled to the floor. Michael shut the helicopter down and switched the security system back on. _They should be safe, at least for the time being._ He let himself sag back against the seat, eyes closed. "There are supplies in the back of the cavern. Cots, food, water, medical..."

He felt his sleeve being pushed up, the prick of something sharp against his arm. "I'll find what we need." Christine's voice seemed to come from a million miles away.

88888888

Hawke was in a mood that could only be described as foul. Much to his dismay, the locals were holding some sort of celebration that involved food and too much drink. His best guess was that it was either a wedding or a funeral, although it was impossible to determine which. Whatever it was, it was keeping people up late, partying in the street.

The waiting grated on the pilot's nerves. When he had tried to sleep, the nightmares had returned. The dream of Michael growing metallic scales and sprouting writhing tentacles had been particularly vivid, and even now that Hawke was awake, the image remained, etched into his memory. Trying to ignore it, he busied himself running system checks. Finally the town grew quiet. "Cait, Locke. Almost time." Under the pretense of waking him, Hawke reached over and gave Locke's shoulder a sharp shove.

The former agent turned his head to glare at Hawke. "I'm awake."

"Folks are finally going to bed. We'll give it another half an hour." It was already after midnight. He turned to Locke. "Tell me again about the layout of this place."

"We've been over this a dozen times. There's not a lot to tell. I was in the long building. From what little I saw on my way out, it seemed to be mostly holding cells. My impression is that the two story might be offices, labs - something of that nature. I have no idea about the other two sheds."

"I don't care how many times you've been over it," Hawke snapped. "Go over it again. How many cells?"

Locke sighed loudly. "Hawke, I was trying to get the hell out of there. Counting the cells wasn't a priority."

Hawke opened his mouth to reply, but Caitlin cut him off from her position in the rear of the aircraft. "String, cut it out. Jason's trying to help us, remember?"

The venom he'd directed at Locke found a new target. "Yeah, I noticed. I'm sure Michael did, too, when he took a bullet meant for your new friend." Hawke shook his head. _How could Cait side with __Locke, after what Locke had done?_

Caitlin's voice rose. "Jason had no way of knowing those men would be there, any more than Michael did. He saved my husband's life. That should count for something."

Hawke exploded. "Saved his life? You make Locke sound like some kind of hero. All he did was shoot Michael full of some frigging alien crap!" He sagged in his seat, the anger burned out of him and replaced by dismay. "God, Cait. I can't get my head around this. That damn shit... I'm not even sure Michael's human any more."

The anger was gone from Caitlin's voice, as well. "String," she said quietly, "Michael's not the only one who's full of that 'frigging alien crap,' as you call it."

Hawke shot a scowl in Locke's direction. "Believe me, I haven't forgotten."

"I'm not talking about Jason." Her voice grew even softer. "I'm talking about me."

He twisted in her seat, staring at her. "Michael infected you?" _He wouldn't have. At least, the Michael __he knew wouldn't have._

She shook her head. "No. Michael doesn't even know. I didn't have the chance to tell him before we left."

Hawke turned on Locke, fully prepared to rip him to shreds. "What the hell did you do?"

"It wasn't Jason," Caitlin said. "I asked Christine to give me the serum."

"You _asked_ for it?" _Had Cait lost her mind? Why would anyone willingly choose to be turned into a __monster? _

"I asked. Initially, she refused. I finally made her understand."

Hawke let out a long breath. _Was he the only sane person left on the planet?_ "Make _me_ understand."

"String, have you thought about what that serum really means? Not in the short term of maybe being able to survive a bullet, but in the long term? It means watching your friends and family grow old and die, while you stay the same. Never being able to stay in one place for too long, because people will start to question. Constantly adapting to a new life, a new place and new friends."

"So why would you choose that? Why would anyone?" Hawke demanded.

"I'm not going to let Michael do that alone. I can't do that to him."

"You realize it's not guaranteed immortality?" Locke asked, quietly. "Moffet showed no signs of further aging in over a quarter century, but whether that lasts forever..."

"I know. And I know things happen. A bullet to the heart could end it tomorrow, but at least now we're in this together."

Hawke didn't have a response for that. He could, in a way, follow her thinking. _She didn't want to __leave Michael._ That he could understand. If the nanites were something of human origin, even if Moffet himself had created them, perhaps then he could stomach it. _But, that serum wasn't human at all, and that sent the goosebumps up his spine._

He couldn't afford to spend his time thinking about it. Putting it out of his mind, Hawke looked at his watch. "It's time to go. Cait, you'll drop us off, then stay in range in case we need backup."

She shook her head. "It makes more sense for me to go with Jason and you to stay here."

_That wasn't part of the plan._ "More sense how?"

Caitlin sighed. "Because I don't trust you two not to kill each other."

It went against everything in Hawke's nature to admit it, but she was right regarding his animosity towards Locke. Perhaps he and Locke shouldn't be trusted to back each other up. "Okay. We'll do it your way." Before he could change his mind, he reached for his helmet. "Locke, get out there and stow the camo netting."

88888888

Caitlin studied the scanners as Hawke made a second pass over the buildings. She identified the same heat signatures she had found on the first run. "The long building is empty, so are the two outbuildings. Three people in the two-story. One on the second story, the others downstairs."

"Sheds first, then the cells. No sense in confronting anyone if we don't have to." Locke looked at Hawke as if he expected an argument, but the pilot only nodded.

"Find me a place to set down, Cait."

In the darkness, infrared was the only way to pick out details of the terrain. "There's a clearing just ahead at ten o'clock. It will be tight, but..."

"Got it."

Hawke centered Airwolf in the small opening between the trees. Caitlin could hear the rotor tips snapping small branches as they descended. As soon as they were settled, Locke climbed from the helicopter. Caitlin started to follow him, but Hawke stopped her, his fingers digging almost painfully into her wrist.

"String?"

"I know you believe he saved Michael, but don't trust that bastard." Hawke's vehemence surprised her. She nodded and he released her. Freed, Caitlin moved quickly to follow the former agent before he was swallowed up by the darkness.

It took them what she estimated at ten minutes to reach the first of the shed-like structures. It was roughly constructed, the only entrance a wooden door secured with nothing more than a simple hasp and padlock. Locke spent a moment examining it, then put his shoulder against the door. It gave abruptly, the crack of splintering wood seeming loud against the stillness of the night.

They both paused, listening, but no alarm was raised. "Keep an eye out," Locke whispered, ducking inside. He pulled the door shut behind him. A moment later she saw the glow of his flashlight from the gap beneath it, skittering as he panned it across the floor.

It was less than a minute before he returned, shaking his head. "Fuel tanks. Diesel." He indicated the second outbuilding. "Want to bet that's a generator?"

She shook her head. A generator made sense; the wire running down the main street indicated the town had electricity, even here on the outskirts, but its reliability was questionable. A lab's demands might be more than the local network could handle.

As Locke had predicted, the second building held an aging, rusted generator. Caitlin watched as he tore wires loose and smashed controls, ensuring it wouldn't be used again, at least not until repairs were made. Keeping to the shadows, they moved on from there to the building where Locke had been held captive. The structure was long and low. It was constructed of concrete blocks, the whitewashed exterior almost luminescent in the moonlight. They circled to the back of the building. Most of it was featureless, but there were a pair of dark windows at one end. Locke headed toward one of them and she followed.

The window was locked. Locke pulled off the jacket he wore and wrapped it around his arm, then elbowed the glass until it gave. The moment it did, the odor hit her, the fetid aroma of decayed flesh wafting from inside.

"Christ," Locke cursed quietly. Knocking the jagged shards away, he reached through the opening and unlocked the window, then pushed it open. He looked over at Caitlin. "Stay here if you want. I'll take a look."

"No. It's alright." Fighting down her urge to gag, Caitlin climbed through the window, her boots crunching broken glass as she moved out of the way so he could join her. Once he had, he flicked on his flashlight, keeping it pointed away from the window.

The room they were in held a table and a couple couches. It might have served as a lounge for the lab assistants and guards. Caitlin pulled her handkerchief from her pocket and held it over her nose. It did little to ease the stench. Locke moved past her, out into the hallway, and she lit her own flashlight, letting it play around the room, looking for anything that might tell them what their enemies were planning.

"I'm going to check the cells. See if you can find anything on this end," Locke's gesture covered the room she stood in as well as the one across the hall.

She nodded. As Locke moved off down the hallway, Caitlin crossed to the second room. Whoever had used it had left behind a boom box, and a checkerboard laid open on a table, checkers still scattered across the squares under a layer of dust. _Red was winning quite handily._ A quick scan revealed nothing of interest in the room.

Locke returned as she finished. His dark complexion was unnaturally pale. "Let's get out of here."

Outside, Locke leaned against a tree, breathing deeply as if trying to clear his lungs. "Looks like they got what they needed. They executed the prisoners. Shot every one of them through the heart. Killed the guards, too."

That explained the half-completed game. "How long...?"

He shrugged. "At a guess? Maybe a couple weeks. Probably when they moved their base of operations to the states. I take it you didn't find anything?"

"No."

Locke rechecked his weapon. "One more place to look."

88888888

Caitlin was content to follow Locke's lead. Despite Hawke's distrust, Locke was in his element here, doing what the Firm had trained him to do. He moved as Michael did - silently, stealthily, swiftly – cutting through the night like a hot knife through butter. It was all she could do to keep up.

A raised hand brought her to a halt beside him, sheltered behind a pair of stunted, half-dead pines. His gaze raked the main building and she let her own follow, trying to see what he was seeing.

A few scattered lights were on, several clustered toward one end of the first floor, the other upstairs. The latter dimmed for a moment as a figure passed between it and the window.

Locke's touch on her arm brought her attention back to him. "We've got some cover," he whispered, indicating the scraggly bushes growing between them and the darkened wing of the building. "This end, we'll see if there's a way in."

Caitlin nodded her agreement, and they were moving again, crouching low to stay in the shadows. The first two windows Locke tried were locked, but the third pushed open with a minimum of noise. This time he went in first, then reached back to help her climb through the opening.

There was a light on in the hallway. Enough illumination filtered from the glass inset in the room's door to see that they were in a lab. At least, it had once been a lab; the room had been stripped of most of its equipment. All that remained were benches littered with an assortment of beakers and tubing.

Locke moved cautiously out into the corridor and they slowly worked their way towards the other end of the building, checking rooms as they passed them. Most were nearly identical to the first. To all appearances, whatever research might have been done there had been either completed or abandoned. Caitlin had hoped that they would find something, computers or paperwork that had been left behind, but she saw nothing that would help to locate Zaid's people or indicate exactly what they had planned.

She took note of the building itself as they advanced. There were signs of aging, cracks along the ceiling, stains where the roof might have leaked. The building obviously predated Zaid. Caitlin wondered what it had originally been used for. The walls – even the internal ones – were rugged, thick and probably soundproof. _Perhaps it had once been some sort of warlord's fortress._

Locke's signal told her that he'd spotted something, and she eased closer to see what it was. Unlike the others they had passed, the room on the other side of the door was brightly lit. Through the narrow pane of glass she could see a man working at a bench, his back to them.

"Keep an eye out." The voice in her ear was so low that she barely caught the words.

The hinges squeaked as Locke pushed open the door, not loudly, but enough that the man within turned his head to look behind him. His mouth opened as if to speak, but words never came. Before they could, Locke hit him, a sharp blow to the side of his head that knocked him from his stool and left him crumpled unconscious on the floor.

A moment later Locke had pulled Flexicuffs from his pocket and was tightly securing the man's wrists and ankles. Once that was done, a strip of duct tape across his mouth ensured he wouldn't be calling for help.

Their enemy appropriately restrained, Caitlin made one last check of the hall then slipped into the room to join Locke. As she did, she saw him take a knife from the sheath on his belt. He reached out with it and ran it across the arm of the man he had subdued, leaving a thin trail of blood in its wake.

The cut clotted almost instantly. Locke didn't seem surprised, rising from where he was crouched. The former agent turned toward the workbench and started examining the parts laid out there. "Cait, watch the door," he ordered, his attention on the pieces of metal before him.

"What is that?" she asked, from her position at the doorway.

"M47 Dragon, or at least, most of one. American anti-tank weapon, although I believe our military is in the process of retiring them." He picked through the parts.

"Anti-tank? What use would Zaid have for something like that?"

"As I said, most of one. It looks like it's been modified, although this one also seems to have a broken gas generator. I'd say our friend was trying to repair it." Locke left the bench and began checking the rest of the room. "If they have one of these, they probably have more. It's not too surprising, Iraq has them, so does Iran." He sighed. "Judging from the modifications, I think we've found our delivery vehicle."

Caitlin swallowed past the lump in her throat. "What's the range on something like that?"

"With an armor piercing warhead, about a thousand yards. With something lighter?" He shrugged, returning to where she waited. "Nothing else here, we need to check the rest of the building."

"What about him?" The man Locke had knocked out was beginning to stir.

Locke scanned the room quickly, then took another pair of Flexicuffs from a uniform pocket. He used them to tie their struggling captive to the pipes beneath the sink in the corner. "That will hold him for awhile."

Again taking the lead, Locke flattened himself against the wall as they moved back out into the hallway. Several darkened rooms later, the second of the lab workers found them instead of the reverse. The man opened a door and stepped into the corridor only a few feet in front of them.

Locke reacted faster than she could, slamming the man into the wall, knocking the breath from him. The agent's left hand went over his opponent's mouth, even while the automatic he held in his right dug into the man's chest. Eyes wild with fear, he offered no resistance, allowing Caitlin to cuff his hands behind his back. Locke shoved him back into the room he had just come out of.

"Don't hurt me. Take what you want. Anything. Please!" he pleaded in heavily accented English as Locke released the hand over his mouth.

Locke didn't move his other hand, the one gripping the weapon. "Where is Zaid?"

"America."

"Where in America?"

Blinking in terror, the man shook his head. "I do not know. Somewhere near capitol. Near Washington?" The automatic was shoved roughly upwards, and he gasped. "I do know not, I swear."

"Why are you still here?" Caitlin demanded, "Why didn't you go with him?"

"We-" He broke off abruptly, realizing he'd disclosed that he wasn't alone in the building. "I – I am to finish here, then join others." Too late, he tried to cover the error.

Locke, too, had caught the change of pronoun – and the contradiction. "You just said you don't know where Zaid is." He prodded the man's ribs again. "What about your friend down the hall? Does he know?"

"No." His head whipped violently in negation. "He is like me, only technician. He knows nothing, only do as told. Upstairs is Badr. He is to take us to America when we are finished."

Under other circumstances, Caitlin might have felt pity for the terrified man, but he represented those who had nearly killed her husband. "Finished with what?"

"Serum. I am separating last batch."

"The others?" Locke asked, "What about them? What are they doing?"

"Ahsan is to repair remaining weapons. Badr, I do not know. Only Badr, Zaid, and the Russian allowed in office."

Never loosening his grip on their captive, Locke glanced over and met Caitlin's gaze. She could see in his eyes a confirmation of her own thoughts. _The information they needed was upstairs._ "Jason?"

"Help me tie him up."

The technician was soon bound to a sturdy piece of furniture, tape over his mouth to keep him quiet. After a quick look around the room, Caitlin followed Locke back out into the hallway. They found a staircase and Locke started up, weapon drawn and ready. She reached out a hand to stop him, and he paused to look back.

"We need him alive," Caitlin whispered.

Locke hesitated, finally nodding before turning his attention back to the stairs. He continued up them, moving slowly and deliberately, eyes scanning his surroundings as he moved.

At the top, the corridor went both ways, but Locke seemed to know which way he was going. Caitlin remembered the figure they had seen shadowed in the window. That was the way Locke was headed.

Unlike those downstairs, the door was solid, with no glass. There was a sign on the door, the universal slashed circle signifying no entry with words below in what Caitlin presumed to be Arabic. She took up a position to the right of the door, and Locke reached across left-handed to turn the doorknob.

He eased the door open, pushing it slowly inwards. It swung silently, leaving them the advantage of surprise. The room's occupant sat before a laptop computer, leaning over, intently studying whatever was on the screen. Locke stepped into the room, making no attempt to be silent.

Their quarry heard the footsteps behind him, and he turned to face them with a gun in his hand. Caitlin dove for cover, from the corner of her eye, seeing Locke do the same. Badr took advantage of the distraction to sprint for a second door on the far side of the room. Locke regained his feet and followed, with Caitlin close behind.

The scientist barely made it through the doorway before Locke tackled him, knocking him to the floor. Caitlin arrived to kick Badr's weapon away before he could threaten either of them with it.

Locke pinned him down, his weight on the man's back. He yanked Badr's arm behind him as the man gasped for breath. "Cait, tie him," Locke demanded.

She did as she was told, hitching Badr's arms tightly behind him and his ankles together, then retrieving the gun he'd carried from where it had landed. "Jason?" she asked, unsure what she should do next.

"Go see if you can find anything on that computer." Locke's voice had taken on an edge she hadn't heard in it before. "Close the door behind you."

Caitlin hesitated for a moment, but Locke looked up at her, something cold and dangerous in his eyes, and she did as he said, going back to the laptop. Just as she started to set down, there came the dull, muffled sound of a shot, followed by what might have been screaming. She rushed back to the door and threw it open.

Badr lay on his back, a puddle of blood surrounding one knee, his face contorted in pain. Locke stood above him, automatic held in both hands. Her gaze shifted between them. "What are you-?"

"Finding out where Zaid is," Locke answered, without turning. "That computer," he reminded her. "That and the rest of the office. Now."

Swallowing hard, she did as he asked, closing the door and forcing herself to tune out the sounds emanating from the other side as she returned to the laptop. A quick look revealed files that seemed to have something to do with aiming and trajectory. The math was beyond her, and for the moment she ignored it, opening the directory instead. Engrossed in searching through what appeared to be shipping manifests, she jumped at the dull thud of another gunshot, one followed by more muted screaming. As much as she might try to ignore it, it did nothing to aid her concentration. Shutting the machine off, she spotted a case that it would fit into. There was a pile of floppy disks on one side of the desk, and she shoved them into the case with the laptop.

That done, she rifled the rest of the desk, finding nothing of interest. Caitlin turned her attention to the remainder of the room. There wasn't much, a few chairs, a second desk which she soon found contained nothing more than the remains of someone's forgotten lunch. A rusty file cabinet stood alone in the corner, and she crossed to it, forcing open the top drawer.

The combined scents of smoke and mildew assaulted her, nearly overpowering in their intensity. Caitlin pulled a handful of files from the drawer and opened one at random. It was stuffed with papers, singed at the edges and heavily water damaged. The first sheet was nearly illegible, and she thumbed through until she found something she could read.

_Subject seventy-three. Female. Approximate age twenty five. Immersed in ninety percent acid bath for fifteen minutes. Subject's skin appeared to dissolve-_ Gagging, Caitlin dropped the page back into the folder. She pulled another paper from the file. _Subject eight-seven. Male. Age fourteen._ Unwilling to read further, she threw the file to one side and pulled another from the drawer. More partially charred papers. She didn't even try to read them. A quick scan revealed that all of the files contained similar material, notes on Moffet's experiments. _How many people must he have tortured?_ Caitlin didn't want to think about how close she had come to becoming one of his subjects.

The cabinet's other drawers were empty. She had just finished checking the final one when the door opened and Locke returned. He was in the process of reloading his automatic.

"Did you find out where-?"

Locke cut her off. "Yeah."

"Badr?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

"Dead." He glanced toward the desk. "The laptop?"

"I think it's important. We need to take it with us."

Locke nodded, slinging the strap of the case over his shoulder. "Anything else?"

"No." She reconsidered. "Actually, yes." She returned to the cabinet and pulled the stack of files from it. "Can you find something to put these in?"

"What are they?" he asked, even as he retrieved a battered cardboard box that would hold them.

"Moffet's notes. Descriptions of his experiments. Zaid must have retrieved them from what was left of Norcom," she answered, as he helped her stuff papers into the box.

Locke stopped mid-motion. "Cait, I saw some of his subjects. Are you sure you want these?"

She looked up at him. "Honestly? I wish I'd never found them, but I did. Moffet knew more about that serum than anyone. We need the information in those notes. I don't know about you, but if nothing else, I want to find out as much as I can about this stuff that's in our veins."

Shoving the last few folders into it, he picked up the box. "Let's get back to Airwolf."

88888888

Caitlin ducked into her position behind the engineering console, then accepted the case Locke passed her. She removed the laptop and propped it open even as Locke slid into the co-pilot's seat.

"Well?" Hawke demanded, as they lifted from the ground.

"We got what we came for." Locke gestured in the direction of the facility they had just left, invisible in the darkness. "I suggest that you wipe that place off the face of the earth."

Caitlin looked up from what she was doing. "But..." Badr was dead, but the two technicians were still bound and tied in the lab. _Technicians inoculated with the serum, who were working with terrorists planning to spread anthrax across Washington._ Were they the ones who had killed the prisoners and guards, and left their bodies behind to rot?

"Cait?" Hawke asked.

She still didn't like it, but she understood why it had to be done. "Never mind. He's right. Level it."

While the two men might deserve the firestorm Hawke unleashed upon them, Caitlin couldn't bring herself to watch it. Instead, she busied herself copying data from the laptop onto spare disks, ensuring that if anything happened to the computer, they would still have a copy.

Destruction complete, they turned for home with Hawke flying. "What did you find?" he asked Locke, his voice and attitude marginally less hostile than it had been before the raid.

"Baltimore. Zaid's people are headquartered at an old warehouse near the Dundalk Marine Terminal. They plan to use modified M47 Dragons to fire shells contaminated with anthrax spores."

"Shit," Hawke cursed. "Are you sure?"

"I am." Caitlin attention had returned to the shipping manifests she had glimpsed earlier. What she read confirmed the information Locke had gotten from Bahr. "A large shipping container sent through the Panama Canal and on to Baltimore."

"How the hell do you ship a container full of anti-tank weapons without anyone noticing?"

She read further. "It looks like they were disassembled and disguised as toys of some kind."

"Toys." Hawke glanced towards Locke. "What do Dragons weigh? Thirty, maybe thirty-five pounds?"

"Something like that."

"In other words, they're light enough for one man to transport. The only question is how many of the damn things they've got?"

Locke shook his head. "That I don't know."

"I do." Caitlin scrolled through pages of information. "They had seventeen. Subtracting the one we found, that leaves sixteen."

Hawke snorted, the sound loud in Caitlin's ears as it came through the intercom. "Sixteen anti-tank missiles loaded with anthrax. This is going to be fun."

88888888

Michael woke slowly, gradually becoming aware of his body and surroundings. _His gut hurt like hell, and he felt like he'd been run through an old-style wringer washer. Repeatedly._ That wasn't surprising, given his memories of what had happened at Locke's cabin and the flight that had followed.

What was surprising was that he was no longer in Junior's cockpit. Instead, he was curled on his side on a cot, protected beneath the rudimentary shelter Hawke had left set up along one side of the Lair. The damned IV was back in his arm, and he was cold, despite several blankets covering him. He started to push them out of the way. _He had to get up. There were things he had to do._

A hand on his arm stopped the motion. "Don't, Michael. You need to stay still." Christine tugged the blankets back over him. "I'll give you something so you can go back to sleep."

"No. I can't." Even to his own ears, his voice sounded horrible, raspy and weak. "What time is it?"

"Around noon."

"Thursday?"

"Yeah."

He tried again to push the blankets away. "I've got to get up. I have to radio Hawke. They'll be back any time now."

Her hand caught his, stopping the motion. "Michael, you've got to lie still. If you don't, you're going to rip yourself apart again."

She didn't understand. "Christine, when Airwolf gets back, they'll head for your place. If I don't warn them, at best, they'll find us missing." _He couldn't do that to Caitlin, not again._ "In the worse case, if Henry's associates are still there, they could be walking into a trap."

"Once they found him dead, they wouldn't hang around, would they?"

"Probably not, but... Did you leave anything that would be worth going back for?"

Michael heard her sharp intake of breath. "Oh no! The money."

"The cash Locke got out of Moffet's account?"

"Yeah. I was trying to grab supplies, I didn't think..."

"How much was there?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe twenty thousand. I'm sorry."

_Enough that Zaid's people might expect them to go back after it. Shit._ "It's alright. I just need to get to the radio."

Christine shook her head. "Even with my help, your legs aren't going to support you. You're no stronger than you were this morning."

"This morning?"

"You don't remember, do you?" When he didn't answer, she continued. "Early this morning I dozed off. You woke up while I was asleep. I don't know what you were thinking; I guess you tried to get to Junior. Anyhow, you collapsed. It was all I could do to get you back into bed. All you accomplished was undoing half a day's worth of healing and losing even more blood."

"What else?"

She hesitated. "You had a rough night. It's probably just as well that you don't remember."

Michael didn't like having gaps in his memory. It was too much like the aftermath of Red Star. He concentrated, and snippets floated to the surface. _Christine getting him out of Junior and half carrying him to the cot. Being violently ill – quite possibly more than once. The feeling of something inside him tearing when he tried to stand_. She was right, it was just as well that he didn't remember any more than he did. _None of that changed the fact that Caitlin and the others might be about to walk into an ambush._ "I need to get to the radio."

"There's no way-" she began, abruptly breaking off. "Can you tell me how to use it? I could call Hawke for you."

That _would_ work, and as much as he might hate to admit it, it sounded like a much better idea than trying to make it to the radio himself. He explained how to operate the equipment, making Christine repeat the instructions back to him to make sure she understood.

"Once I raise them, what do I tell them?"

Michael considered it. He was reluctant to say too much; Airwolf's communications were supposed to be secure, but these were people who had the ingenuity and foresight to tap his phone. He wasn't going to chance underestimating them. "Tell Hawke that we had unexpected company drop in, and they may still be visiting. Have him meet us at the fabric store."

"The fabric store?" Christine asked, clearly confused.

"I suppose you could call it a private joke. The first time I flew into this chimney, Hawke said it was like threading a needle. We practiced it so much I started referring to coming here as 'going to the fabric store'. He'll know where we are."

She nodded. "Fabric store it is. Anything else?"

"Explanations can wait until they get here." Michael shifted slightly, trying to get more comfortable on the hard cot. It was a mistake. The motion sent a lightning bolt of pain coursing through him. He bit his lip until the worst of it had passed, then cursed. "Damn."

There was sympathy in her eyes. "Let me give you something."

"Call Airwolf first." He wanted to be sure she reached Hawke. _The thought of Caitlin and Hawke walking into what could be a trap..._

"I'll be quick."

The sound of her footsteps receded as she crossed to Junior, and he could hear her talking on the radio, although he couldn't make out the words. Christine returned a few minutes later. "They're on their way. Hawke seemed to understand the message. He said we'd see them around four o'clock." She moved out of his line of sight, soon returning with a vial and a syringe. "I'm going to give you something so you can sleep."

As much as Michael hated the idea, he knew he needed it. Maybe when he woke he would be stronger. "Okay," he agreed. He watched her hands as she drew the fluid into the needle. "Is that morphine?"

"It is." Christine turned, preparing to inject the drug into his IV.

_What the hell?_ "How much are you giving me?" He was no doctor, but by the same token, he was no stranger to hospitals. The dose she had prepared would knock an elephant off his feet.

She lowered the syringe. "After Jason injected me with the serum, the other drugs I was taking started having less and less effect. He said that Moffet had mentioned something along the same lines happening with his...subjects. At the time, we really didn't understand why. Now that I know about the nanites, it makes sense. They must see the medication as something foreign that they should filter out of your system. The more they multiply, the more effective they are at the filtering process. Hence the need for a larger dose."

"In other words, eventually the morphine won't work at all."

"No, actually, it seems there's a point at which the nanites stop stripping the drugs. Based on my experience, it's about three or four times the usual dose."

Which looked to be roughly what she was about to give him. The idea of it scared him. "I won't get hooked on that crap, will I?"

"After the nanites get done, all you're really getting is a normal dose. So, no, you won't get hooked." She smiled somewhat sheepishly. "For that matter, the serum apparently blocks the euphoric effect of drugs, including alcohol. Which eliminates any possibility of getting high, even if you're trying to."

He read between the lines of what she was saying. "Sounds like the voice of experience speaking."

Christine blushed. "When I first found out what Jason had injected me with - and what he'd done to get it - I didn't take it very well. I downed a fifth of vodka and I never even got buzzed."

"So much for getting drunk and pretending it was all a bad dream, hm?" Michael asked. _He could understand the desire._

"Something like that." She raised the syringe again and gave him a questioning look. He nodded his agreement, and watched as she fed the morphine into the IV.

It wasn't long until the pain started to ease, and he felt himself slipping toward sleep.

88888888

"What did Christine mean, 'unexpected company'?" Caitlin voice came over the intercom, tinged with worry.

"I don't know, but I don't like it." Hawke turned his head to glare at Locke in the co-pilot's seat. After their successful raid on Zaid's headquarters, he had begun to think that Michael was right and Locke actually was on their side, at least temporarily. Now, his doubts had returned in full force. "Did anyone know where you were hiding out?"

Locke glanced to his right before refocusing his attention on the helicopter's controls. "Not that I know of. If I'd expected any trouble, I sure as hell wouldn't have left Christine there."

_Assuming that Christine wasn't an active and willing participant in whatever had caused their relocation._ She seemed like a decent woman, but she was involved with Locke, and she had those damned alien bugs in her blood. Hawke ground his teeth. "Then what is going on?"

"I don't know. Are you sure _you_ weren't followed?" There was a bite of anger in Locke's words. "Or Cait, last night?"

"You know Airwolf's electronics." Hawke had been scanning, and he was sure Caitlin had been, as well. "If either of us had been followed, we'd have known it."

It was a long moment before Locke said anything. "I take it that the 'fabric store' reference means something to you?"

Hawke silently debated how much he should tell Locke. _He'd find out soon, anyhow._ "The Lair. It's a long story. Michael knew I'd know what he meant."

"So he must have told her exactly what to say." There was the slightest hesitation before Locke continued. "Knowing Michael, it's damn strange he didn't make the call himself."

Had they been sitting at a table, Hawke might have kicked Locke in the shin. Instead, he simply glared. The same thought had occurred to him, but he hadn't wanted to voice it in front of Cait. She was already worried enough.

Before Hawke could say anything, Caitlin did. "You think he's hurt, don't you?"

Locke winced, most likely recognizing the fear in her voice and knowing he had contributed to it. "Not necessarily, Cait. Most likely he's just otherwise occupied. He might be guarding prisoners, doing reconnaissance... They could have damage to the helicopter. Michael might be busy making repairs."

If Hawke was any judge at all, Locke didn't actually believe any of what he was saying. Locke thought the same thing he did, that Michael was either injured or in trouble. Hawke debated going to the turbos, but decided against it. They weren't all that far from the Lair. Most of what they gained in speed would be lost by an extra fuel stop.

88888888

Soft fingertips slid beneath the blankets, lightly stroking his shoulder and back, leaving lingering trails of warmth in their wake. _It felt good, better than anything had since- _

The lingering fog abruptly burned away. Michael twisted his neck to look over his shoulder. "You're back."

"Yeah." Breaking off the massage, Caitlin circled the cot. She leaned over, brushing his cheek briefly with her lips. Sitting down beside him, she reached out to take his hand in hers. "I can't leave you alone for a minute, can I?" The sad smile didn't reach her eyes, where relief warred with worry.

"Wasn't exactly my fault."

"I know. Christine told me." She sounded tired. _She looked tired._ "You feel any better?"

It still hurt, but the fear that the slightest movement would rip him apart again was gone. "Yeah. I can almost feel everything knitting back together again." Seeing her blanch, he changed the topic. "How long have you been back?"

"An hour, maybe two."

"Where is everyone?" It wasn't the question he wanted to ask. He wanted to ask if they'd found anything, but if they hadn't, he didn't want to remind Caitlin of the alternative.

"Jason and Christine are sleeping." A flip of her head indicated the far side of the cavern. "Hawke took Airwolf, he's going to get some rest and then bring back supplies in the morning. We know where Zaid's people are," she said, answering his unasked question. "Once everyone gets some sleep, we're going to figure out what to do."

By morning he might be strong enough to help, at least with the planning. "You know, you need sleep, too."

"What I need is to be with you. Hang on." Caitlin released his hand to go after something out of his line of sight. When she returned, she was holding a bottle of water. "Christine said that you need to drink this. She also said that you could sit up if you wanted, as long as you were careful how you moved."

Michael eyed the water. As thirsty as he was, he remembered all to well what had happened the first time. Caitlin was worried enough; he had no desire to start puking blood in front of her. Stalling, he nodded. "Sitting up sounds good." In truth, it was probably a good idea. His knee and shoulder were both stiffening from the inactivity. He needed to move.

She set the water down so she could prop pillows behind him, piling them up until he was sitting upright. "Okay?" Cait asked, watching him intently as she hovered beside him, pulling a blanket around his shoulders.

"A little dizzy," he admitted. "It will pass in a minute." While he waited for his mind to clear, he took inventory. Christine had apparently removed his shirt sometime during the night, but thankfully he was still wearing the sweatpants. He slid his hand across his stomach. The latest swelling was going down, but he didn't need to look to know the bruising was back.

"Michael?"

Caitlin was still watching him, and she had the damned bottle of water in her hand. He wasn't going to be able to put her off any longer. The possibility of having her wake Christine occurred to him, and was just as quickly discarded. He wasn't sure Cait would ever forgive him if he did. "I'm alright." He reached for the water. "You might as well give me that."

She did as he asked. "Christine said to drink it slowly." Caitlin chewed nervously at her lip. "She said she thought the odds were about fifty-fifty that you'd keep it down. If you can't, that's okay." Her hand strayed to a basin he hadn't noticed, waiting beside the cot.

"Let's hope I don't need that." He sipped cautiously at the water. By the time he'd finished half of it, he was confident that he wasn't about to be sick. Michael looked up, meeting his wife's worried gaze. "It's okay, Cait. You can relax."

She exhaled sharply in relief as she sat down. "You need to finish it, if you can. Are you hungry? I can fix you something, if you want."

Michael drank the rest of the water. He was hungry, but the only thing edible they kept at the Lair were MREs, which didn't strike him as particularly appetizing. "I'll wait till morning." _With luck, Hawke would bring breakfast._

"You probably should try to get some more sleep, then."

He wasn't all that tired, at least not mentally, but he recognized that sleep was probably the best thing for him. Caitlin needed it, too, and he knew her well enough to know that she wouldn't get any until he did. "Can I get you to move a couple of these pillows?"

Caitlin adjusted the bedding for him. She stroked his arm as she checked the IV. "Christine showed me how to draw up a dose of morphine-" she began.

Michael cut her off. "No. I don't need it, and I'd just as soon not go there unless I have to."

"You're sure?"

He was still in a fair amount of pain, but he'd dealt with worse. "I'm sure."

"Is there anything else I can get you? Anything you need?"

"Only you. I just wish there was room on this cot for both of us." What he really wanted was Caitlin beside him.

She smiled, and this time it did reach her eyes. "I think I can arrange the next best thing." Caitlin disappeared for a moment, soon returning with a second cot. She unfolded it and pushed it up against his. "Close enough?"

"Almost."

Chuckling, she sat down and started pulling her boots off. "It will have to do."

88888888

Hawke brought an assortment of maps and photographs, but not breakfast. Michael joined the others at the folding table Locke had set up. He was hungry enough that the "chicken with rice" MRE that he'd judged the least objectionable choice actually tasted good. There was coffee, for which he was grateful, although he suspected that the nanites would nullify the kick he usually got from the caffeine.

"Should you be up?" Hawke asked, over the rim of his own cup

Michael shrugged. Caitlin had helped him get cleaned up and dressed, and he was moving under his own power. _As long as he managed to avoid any more hand-to-hand combat, he'd be fine. _ "I need to know what you found, and what your plans are."

Hawke didn't argue. Instead, he looked toward the end of the table. "Locke?"

"I convinced one of Zaid's scientists to tell me where to find their US base of operations."

Instead of Locke, Michael was watching Caitlin. From the look of revulsion on her face, he had no doubts about how Locke had managed to be so persuasive. "I found confirmation on their computer." Cait said, turning the laptop so the others could see the screen. "Dundalk Marine Terminal in Baltimore. They've set up at a warehouse-" she tapped one of Hawke's maps with a fingernail. "Here."

Locke took up the tale again. "They have sixteen M47 anti-tank weapons that have been modified to fire explosive shells loaded with anthrax spores."

Michael cursed under his breath. There were far too many American munitions spread across the Middle East, some presumably captured or stolen during the Gulf War, but others undoubtedly provided to American allies. Allies who, given the fluid and volatile nature of local politics, often ended up as anything but. More than once he'd found himself longing for the "old" days when the Soviet Union was still the greatest threat.

"Further," Locke continued, "We need to assume that all of Zaid's people have been inoculated with the serum."

"Lovely. Just lovely." Hawke's tone was as sarcastic as Michael had ever heard it. "Anyone in favor of simply going in there and blowing that building off the face of the earth?"

"And quite possibly spreading spores across most of Baltimore?" Michael asked, although he didn't think Hawke had actually been serious about his suggestion.

Hawke's answering snort convinced Michael that the pilot had just been voicing his frustration. "Nothing is ever simple, is it?"

It had never been simple, and it had become infinitely more complicated when Locke had jabbed that syringe into his arm. Michael turned his attention away from Hawke and toward Caitlin and Locke. "Any idea how many people Zaid has with him?"

"Fifteen, including Zaid. The three that we found in Bolivia were attending to some last minute details, and were going to join the others before the attack." Locke paused. "One thing that might be in our favor – most of these men are scientists, not fighters, and certainly not trained terrorists. Zaid is cagey and smart, but he doesn't have experience with this. The lackeys he sent after us were all hired help, not his own people. "

"On the flight back, I looked through some of the papers we found." Caitlin took a deep breath, as if steeling herself to continue. "Moffet wasn't content to simply carve up his victims. He exposed them to noxious chemicals, extremes of temperature, disease. That's where Zaid got the anthrax, from Moffet."

Michael didn't want to think about what the papers Cait had found contained. He knew - in general terns, at least - what Moffet had planned for her. The last thing he wanted was the graphic details, and he didn't think she needed to read them, either. There wasn't much he could do about that now. "We need to clean that warehouse out. Completely." They couldn't chance leaving Zaid or any of his collaborators behind.

"Alien serum or not, those bastards have got to sleep sometime." Hawke rummaged through the pile for a photo of the building. "If we run heat sensors and motion detectors on the building, we should be able to tell when they settle down for the night. Cait can drop me off, then hover at altitude and monitor."

"So you're planning to do this alone?" Locke asked.

Hawke looked up sharply. "Michael's in no shape-"

Locke interrupted. "I'm going with you."

Cocking his chin, Hawke stared at the former agent. "Why?"

"Because I feel partly responsible for this. If I'd stopped Moffet..." he didn't continue.

"Yeah." The single word was all Hawke said, but it conveyed everything.

Michael pushed away the remains of the MRE. "I'm going too."

"Like hell you are. We discussed this before, Michael. You're still a liability."

_Hawke wasn't going to make this easy._ Michael raised a hand to stall further argument. "Hear me out. I know I'm in no condition for an assault. I'm probably not even up to flying Airwolf. I'm more than happy to leave that to Cait. What I can do is sit in the back, watch the scanners and pick out targets." He scowled. "With luck, I might be able to keep the two of you from accidentally shooting each other." _ Although he wasn't entirely sure that if one of them was shot, it would be an accident._

"Michael, I-" Caitlin began, before he cut her off.

"Cait, you are a more than competent pilot, but you don't have the tactical training for this. I do."

Hawke gave Michael a long look that could only be termed a critical appraisal. "Are you sure you can handle the g-forces?" he asked, finally.

"I'm sure." _He wasn't sure at all._

To Michael's surprise, Hawke turned to Christine, who had been sitting silently beside Locke. "What do you think?"

She didn't answer immediately, and when she did, she appeared to be choosing her words carefully. "I've seen him do things I didn't think he would be able to do. I don't know anything about g-forces, but if he thinks he can handle this, then he probably can."

"Alright." Hawke didn't sound particularly happy about it.

Locke put down the photo he'd been examining. "I don't want to leave Christine here alone."

"Neither do I," Hawke agreed. "She can stay with Marella."

Michael had no doubts that Locke's reasons for not wanting Christine left alone at the Lair were nothing at all like Hawke's, but Locke simply nodded.

"Cait, I need you in Airwolf. I want to run a full systems check. Let's plan on leaving here at 2pm." Hawke rose, a signal that the meeting, at least as far as he was concerned, was over. He started to head for the helicopter, then turned back. His gaze settled on Michael. "I'm going to warn you. When we take off, I'm going to turbos. If you pass out on me, you're going to be staying with Marella, too."

88888888

They left the Lair minutes apart, first Christine with Caitlin in Junior, then the three men in Airwolf. True to his threat, Hawke yanked Airwolf skyward, igniting the turbos and throwing the helicopter through a series of maneuvers.

Fighter pilots had a handful of tricks they used to stay conscious and alert during combat, despite the high g-forces on their bodies. Many years earlier, the first time Michael had hitched a ride aboard an F-16, the pilot had taken pity on him and taught him the basics of what they called the AGSM. The knowledge had served him well over the years. In particular, one young Navy fly-boy had gotten quite a surprise when he had radioed base to brag that he'd blacked-out his unwanted intelligence agency passenger, only to find that said passenger was far from unconscious.

AGSM, however, relied in large part upon tightening the muscles, including those of the abdomen. At the moment, that wasn't an option. Determined to stay conscious, Michael did what he could, contracting the muscles of his limbs and concentrating on controlling his breathing. He fought to hold back the gray mist that shrouded the edges of his vision.

They finally leveled off and Hawke re-engaged the rotors. He had put Airwolf through her paces, but hadn't even approached the limits of what she capable. "You still with us?" his voice came through the headset.

Michael took a slow, deep breath before answering. "Sorry to disappoint," he managed, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice, hoping the intercom would hide what he couldn't.

In the co-pilot's seat, Locke turned, looking back over his shoulder. The expression that crossed his face might have been one of concern. He started to open his mouth, as if to speak.

Very deliberately, Michael met Locke's gaze and shook his head. Locke hesitated, then shrugged. His lips moved silently, then he turned back to his controls.

Michael had read the words that Locke hadn't said out loud. _Your funeral. _ He knew how he felt, and could guess how bad he looked. "Hawke, how would you feel about a slight change of plans?" Michael asked.

"What's that?"

"When we pick Cait up, why don't you let her fly the first leg? I'd like to have Locke back here so I can go over signals with him." It would serve to keep her from seeing what rough shape he was in. Locke might be willing to keep his mouth shut, but he knew Caitlin wouldn't.

"Fine by me." Hawke turned Airwolf to catch up with Junior.

88888888

Even without the turbos, Airwolf was a good deal faster than her look-alike sibling, and they passed the other helicopter well before they reached their destination. Hawke had radioed Marella before they left the Lair, asking her to meet them at his cabin. As he had hoped, Marella hadn't asked questions and had simply agreed. She had a fairly good idea of what was going on; he had spent the previous night with her, using her as a sounding board.

Hawke had needed her input, her impartiality. While she didn't entirely trust Locke, she didn't have the personal hatred of him that Hawke had. Hawke knew that that hatred clouded his judgment, even coloring his opinion of Caitlin and Michael, given their willingness to accept Locke's motives.

He would, for the moment, give Locke the benefit of the doubt. With Michael effectively out of commission, he didn't have much choice. He needed Cait to fly Airwolf, and taking on Zaid's group alone wasn't a realistic option.

Sighing, Hawke banked over the lake, spotting Marella's vehicle behind the cabin. He flared and brought Airwolf down gently on the dock, then shut the helicopter down.

Hawke craned his neck around to look behind him. "Michael, you want to come in for a quick coffee?" There was no answer. "Michael?"

"Sorry." Michael's voice was as rough as he'd ever heard it. "I'm trying a few things to fine tune the sensors. How about a thermos?"

"Yeah, I'll bring you out one." Hawke didn't buy Michael's answer that he was tuning the sensors. It was more likely that he didn't think he could make it up the walk to the cabin. While Michael might – somehow – have managed not to pass out, Hawke knew that the agent had no business being in Airwolf. But, it was Michael's call, and as much as he hated to admit it, they needed him.

Scowling, Hawke opened the helicopter's door and motioned to Locke. "Come on."

88888888

Marella stuck her head through the open doorway. "Michael?"

His eyes blinked open, finally settling on her, and he sat up straighter. "Hawke send you to check on me?"

"Not exactly." Hawke had told her what he'd done, the acrobatic moves he'd pulled when they left the Lair. She climbed into the back of Airwolf and sat down beside him. "You look like shit."

He slumped back into the padding of his seat. "I feel like shit."

"I would have had Hawke bring me to the Lair last night, but..."

"Christine had me on an IV. There's nothing more you could have done." His words echoed her thoughts.

"Are you bleeding again?"

"I don't think so. The last time I could tell. Just dizzy and weak - with a splitting headache."

"Your blood count is down, and you're still dehydrated." Marella could tell that much from looking at him. She reached for his wrist, fingers finding his pulse. It was relatively normal, and he didn't seem to have a fever. "I don't imagine that the flight here helped. I don't know what the hell Hawke was thinking, pulling g's like that."

"Just making sure I'm an asset. I can't blame him for it." He looked wistfully toward the thermos she carried. "I assume that's not coffee."

"Afraid not." She unscrewed the top and poured out a cup. "Drink."

He took a cautious sip, then made a face. "What is that?"

"Juice."

"Juice of what? Dirty socks?" Despite complaining, he took another swallow.

She chuckled. "Spinach, with some fruit to improve the flavor." She had run the most nutritious things she could find through Hawke's blender.

"Needs more fruit." Michael finished the cupful, grimacing. "A lot more fruit."

"Consider yourself lucky that Hawke doesn't eat liver." Marella fished a container of pills out of her pocket. "Let me get you some water to take these with."

"Pain killers?" he asked, eyebrow raising in suspicion.

"No. Iron pills and vitamins. I don't know if they'll do any good, but they can't hurt."

He took them from her. "Don't bother with the water, just give me another cup of sock juice." Once she had, he swallowed down the pills.

"Feel any better?" she asked, hoping that getting fluids into him would help at least a little.

"Headache is letting up, I think." Michael cocked his head, listening. "That's Junior headed in."

She could hear it as well. It was time for her to go. "Are you sure about this, Michael?"

He nodded. "I can sleep most of the way there. That's all I need; with a few hours rest I'll be fine."

Marella didn't like it, and she certainly wouldn't have recommended it, but with the nanites in his system, he was unlikely to do himself any permanent damage. That didn't mean he was going to enjoy it. She rose to climb out of the helicopter. He stopped her. "Marella? Do me a favor. Keep Cait busy. I'd rather she not see..."

In her own mind, Marella finished his thought. _See what condition I'm in._ If Cait did, she'd probably drag him bodily from Airwolf herself. Marella nodded her assent. "Take care of yourself."

88888888

After going over a few things with Locke, Michael had closed his eyes, not opening them again until Hawke stopped for fuel at a rundown airstrip somewhere in Illinois. Michael had been right; the sleep had done him a world of good. Stiff from his nap behind the engineering console, he got out to stretch his legs during the refueling. To him, the evening air seemed damp and chill, but undoubtedly much of that was the blood loss; the others seemed to be comfortable enough. Michael tugged the collar of the flight suit tighter around his neck, and walked slowly around the helicopter. He caught himself doing a mental pre-flight. _Force of habit._

Caitlin soon joined him, eying him with a frown. "Are you okay? Honestly?"

"I've been better," he admitted, "But I've been a hell of a lot worse, too." Michael was grateful that the field wasn't well lit. Cait was the reason why he had waited until she had gone into the office with Hawke before getting out of Airwolf.

"You're sure you're up to this?"

"I'm not going after Zaid, I'm simply watching a computer screen. It's not exactly physical labor, Cait." He wrapped his arm around her as she walked beside him, enjoying both her closeness and the warmth of her body.

"You didn't answer my question."

"I didn't?" _He'd intentionally evaded the question, and she'd caught him at it._

"No, you didn't."

He sighed. "Honestly, what I'd like to do is go home and crawl into bed, pull the covers over my head and stay there for a week. Make that two weeks, and preferably with you beside me." He brushed her temple with his lips. "I can't afford to. We both know that. Maybe once this is over."

If she noticed that he still hadn't answered, she didn't call him on it. Instead, she looked over her shoulder to where Hawke was supervising the fueling. "I think they're almost done. There's a gas station across the road. If you're okay, I'm going to run over there and grab us all some snacks. Any special requests?"

"Coffee." He'd drank as much of Marella's vile concoction as he could. "A sandwich, too, if there's anything that looks good."

"I'll see what they have. I'll be back in a minute, don't let Hawke take off without me."

He watched her jog off toward the station, then circled around and eased himself back into Airwolf, wincing as he squeezed through the narrow opening into the rear compartment. It was always a tight fit, made even more so as he tried to avoid bending.

Hawke and Locke soon joined him in the helicopter, sliding into the pilot's and co-pilot's seats, respectively. As they waited for Caitlin, Michael half listened to their discussion of weather conditions. The most important things he took from the discussion was that it was currently raining in Baltimore, and that the two men were at least being civil towards each other. He wondered how much Marella had to do with their apparent truce.

Minutes later, Caitlin returned, carrying a paper bag and a cardboard tray of drinks. Joining him in the back of the aircraft, she distributed her booty, bottled water for Hawke, Gatorade for Locke. She handed Michael his coffee and set down her own, then fished a couple of pre-wrapped sandwiches from the bag before passing it forward.

"One of those is String's tuna," she told Locke, who had taken the food from her.

"Hang onto it while I get us in the air," Hawke said, as he started the rotors turning.

Michael took a long swallow of his coffee. It was strong and had the chalky taste of powdered creamer, but after the spinach juice, he wasn't about to complain. From what Christine had told him, he knew that any boost he might get from it was almost certainly psychosomatic, but at a minimum the hot liquid would serve to warm him.

Caitlin peeled open the plastic holding one of the sandwiches. "All they had were tuna and roast beef. I got you the beef."

"That's fine, thanks." The bread was on the soggy side, but otherwise it wasn't bad.

They ate mostly in silence as Hawke headed Airwolf east. Finished, Michael fought the steady, hypnotic beat of the rotors, trying to stay awake. His weakness annoyed him. Simply getting out of the helicopter and walking around had been sufficient to zap what little strength he had.

Caitlin edged closer, one hand softly kneading his shoulders and the back of his neck. With the other, she pulled the headset's mic away from her mouth. "That feel good?" she asked quietly, her lips close to his ear.

Mindful of the intercom, he simply nodded. _It felt heavenly._ His memory drifted back to the early days of their relationship. _Nights when she would do much the same after he woke drenched with sweat, reliving what Stoner had put him through._ What he was currently living was an entirely different sort of nightmare. He had, so far, managed to avoid thinking too much about what the nanites might be doing to him beyond healing his wounds and extending his lifespan. Sooner or later, he was going to have to deal with that question.

"We've got a few hours yet. Go back to sleep." Cait's voice was as soft as the hand that she raised to stroke his cheek. "I'll wake you before we get there."

Michael reached for her hand, tangling his fingers in hers. "Love you." He mouthed the words, knowing she would understand.

She leaned toward him and her lips briefly met his. "Love you, too," she whispered.

Satisfied, he let his eyes slip closed.

88888888

They made their first pass over their destination around one-thirty in the morning, the second about twenty minutes later. Even using Airwolf's visible light amplification system, Michael could see little that hadn't been obvious in the photographs Hawke had brought back to the Lair. The warehouse was well away from the working cargo docks. It was fronted by a decaying pier threatening to fall into the Chesapeake Bay, and backed by an abandoned factory that had seen its heyday at least a half-century earlier. The warehouse itself was cinder block, younger than either the pier or the factory, although not in much better shape.

They had already identified an isolated clearing in the woods to the north where they could land to go over the final details. Michael compared the two sensor sweeps as Hawke headed there.

Once they were on the ground, Hawke popped the door, letting in a blast of chill night air. Caitlin got out and quickly circled to the pilot's seat, while both Hawke and Locke crowded into the back where they could see the computer. "We've got fifteen heat signatures, with any luck, our fifteen terrorists. Most of them are stationary. Six here." Michael's finger tapped the screen, pointing. "Four more here." Another tap.

Hawke grunted an acknowledgment. "Let's hope they're sleeping. What else?"

"Two here, near the side door. I didn't register any movement between the passes, but given their position, I'd be willing to bet they're guards."

"It's where I'd post someone," Locke agreed. "Short of opening the cargo doors, that would be the main access point. Where are the other three?"

"One here, at the front of the building." Michael pointed. "He's awake and moving around. Possibly another guard." A longer, more intense scan might tell him more. "The last two are in separate rooms back here." The area Michael indicated was at the far back corner of the structure.

Locke scowled. "Zaid and Chirkoff."

"Most likely," Michael agreed. "If so..."

"They're our priority targets." Hawke nodded.

Michael hesitated, uncertain how to continue. "Hawke," he said, finally, "Zaid and his men all have the nanites in their systems. You need to-"

Locke cut him off. "Either the heart or the brain stem. At least two rounds each, just to be sure."

"I know." _From the look on his face, Hawke hadn't forgotten that Zaid's people weren't the only ones who'd been infected._

"You both have your tags?" Michael asked, hoping to derail Hawke's train of thought.

In answer, Locke nodded, and Hawke's hand brushed the medallion hanging from a chain around his neck. Each wore a piece of alloy with a different metallurgical makeup. Airwolf's scanners could easily identify and track the medallions, and in turn, track the men.

They checked their radios, and both Hawke and Locke loaded themselves with extra ammunition for the silenced automatics they carried. The two men shrugged on jackets, not an easy maneuver in the tight confines. "Are we ready to do this?" Hawke asked.

Receiving affirmative replies, he slipped out of the back of Airwolf and took his place in the front with Caitlin. Locke remained in the back beside Michael, and Cait lifted the helicopter, headed toward the docks.

Minutes later they landed, this time in a deserted loading area not far from the warehouse. The turning rotor blades rippled the pavement's deeper puddles, creating jumbled reflections of the helicopter's running lights. The rain that had briefly let up about the time they reached Baltimore had started again. What was falling from the sky was more of a cold, thick mist than actual rain, but Michael didn't envy Hawke and Locke. They would be soaked by the time they reached the warehouse.

As soon as the two had cleared the helicopter, Cait took off, quickly gaining altitude. Michael checked the screen. He could easily make out their heat signatures as they moved toward the building, and the tags allowed him to identify them. He watched as Hawke reached the door, Locke just behind him. The speaker in his headset crackled to life.

"You reading me?"

"I've got you at the door, Hawke," he answered.

"Any change in status?"

Michael took another look at the computer. "That one individual is still moving around inside near the cargo doors, other than that, it's quiet."

"Roger that. As soon as Locke gets the door open, we're going in."

The plan was for the former agent to pick the lock, if he could. If he couldn't, they had other options, but those options were far louder and were likely to alert the building's occupants. Michael's fingers twitched with impatience, a part of him regretting that he wasn't down there working on the lock himself.

_Not that he would be any more successful or any faster than Locke._ Years ago, he might have been, but that was before the bullet in his shoulder had robbed him of much of the sensitivity and fine dexterity in his fingers. Given time, he could probably still get the door open, but it would take just that, time.

"Got it." Locke's voice came over the radio.

"First two heat sources are to your right as you go through the door," Michael reminded them.

The mic keyed with a click, Hawke's signal that they read and understood. Michael watched the monitor, saw the two tagged figures move inside. A sharp movement from one. Locke, quite possibly ducking for cover. The two guards – if that's what they were – began moving in Hawke's general direction. _Looking for the source of a sound, perhaps?_

Michael watched the skirmish play out far below him, frustrated at his inability to influence its outcome. As he continued to watch, he saw quick, bright flashes of heat. _Gunfire._ The two untagged figures ceased moving. There was no accurate way to discern the recently deceased from the living by the heat they radiated, but confirmation came via the headset. "Two down." Hawke's voice, barely above a whisper. "Not much for lights down here, and there's a shitload of crap Zaid never bothered to clear out. We're going to need directions. Where next?"

A quick look at the monitor revealed that nothing had changed, only the one single individual was moving around in what seemed to be the only well lit part of the building. Michael's first thought had been that the man was another guard, but upon further observation, the limited pattern of his movements suggested otherwise. _Walking between one workbench and another, or from desk to cabinet. It was even possible that he might simply be pacing._ In any event, his actions showed no sign that he knew the warehouse had been compromised, and he was located near the doors that lead out onto the loading dock, well away from the others.

_He would have to wait._ Hawke and Locke needed to work their way into the building and reach Zaid and his Russian conspirator as quickly as they could. "To the left, about fifty feet. Six of them in what looks like a separate room," Michael told Hawke.

It would be an iffy proposition, trying to take out six men before any of them could reach weapons of their own or call for help. If they bypassed them, though, and went directly for Zaid and Chirkoff, Hawke and Locke could easily find themselves surrounded by ten or more men. "Another twenty feet, Hawke"

"I see it. A separate office walled off in between the racks."

The warehouse had, according to the information Locke had dug from the Lair's computers, last been home to a shipping and receiving company. It didn't strike Michael as a particularly comfortable base of operations, but the surrounding area was virtually deserted. Further, anyone who _was_ around was unlikely to ask questions because odds were, they were up to their own version of no good. Given what Zaid was planning, privacy was undoubtedly more important than comfort. "Two targets on the left, four on the right. First one's about five feet in."

The radio keyed in response, and Michael watched the two men move forward. Judging from how quickly the office door was opened, it wasn't locked. There were a number of the brief flashes of heat that indicated gunshots, followed by a burst of activity, both friend and foe moving too fast to follow. More heat sources appeared, ones gridded in a pattern across the entire warehouse. _Overhead lights._

"Michael?" The call came over the radio. In the background, Michael could hear muted gunfire and an alarm going off.

"Talk to me, Hawke." There was no way Michael could help unless he knew the situation.

"Kill those lights!"

Caitlin had been listening in, and was dropping the helicopter earthward before Michael could speak. He fought to keep his focus as gravity reversed, and the floor dropped out from under him. The additional heat sources made it hard to pick out what was going on below.

A hundred feet off the ground, Airwolf's descent slowed abruptly and Caitlin spun the aircraft, blazing chain guns tearing through the telephone poles that carried electricity to the warehouse. Wires sparked and jumped, electricity arcing across the wet pavement before shorting out. "Did that do it?" Cait asked, turning to make another pass.

"Good shooting." Inside the warehouse, the grid faded as the bulbs cooled. On the screen, Michael saw that the rest of the building's occupants were awake and moving. The four that had been sleeping in the second room now had Hawke and Locke pinned in the office.

_Where were Zaid and Chirkoff?_ Michael knew they hadn't had enough time to make it to the side exit, but they were both gone from their rooms. "Damn it!" he swore, finally spotting them.

They were outside, running along the far side of the building. Somewhere there was another exit, one that hadn't been visible in external photos of the structure. It was too late to worry about how they'd gotten out. Michael looked to see if either Hawke or Locke could break free to go after them. There would be no help from that quarter, they were still pinned down, although it appeared a number of those surrounding them were no longer moving.

Michael switched the screen from heat sensing to light amplification. When he did, he saw that Zaid and the Russian had reached the building's loading dock, and another man had opened one of the cargo doors to join them. Undoubtedly, the third individual was the one Michael had seen in that area earlier. All three of them were carrying knapsacks and were headed toward the river, and what looked to be a dead end. _That didn't make sense. _ "Shit." There was a Zodiac boat tied up to the pier.

"Michael?" Caitlin asked, over the intercom.

"Zaid's got a boat. He's making a run for it." Even as Michael said it, Zaid and his accomplices reached the Zodiac.

Caitlin apparently spotted them. "I could take them out with a Hellfire."

"No. They may be carrying the spores. If they are, we might spread anthrax across half the city." They couldn't take that chance, but there was no way either Hawke or Locke would be able to get there in time to stop the men. There was only one option. "Set her down, Cait. Get as close as you can." He keyed the radio. "Hawke?"

"Yeah?" He sounded out of breath, and the alarm was sill loud in the background.

"Zaid's running. Cait and I are on it. Are you—"

Hawke cut him off. "We've got this. Go."

The helicopter was touching down as Michael levered himself out of his seat. He opened one of Airwolf's rear storage compartments, the one where they kept the weapons. Michael started to reach for his automatic, then changed his mind and grabbed an M-16 instead. He doubted if he had the strength to control the kick of the hand gun, and any thoughts of stealth had disappeared when Caitlin took out the power lines. He shoved a couple extra magazines into his pocket.

"Michael?"

Cait was turned in the pilot's seat, looking back to see what he was doing. "I'm going after Zaid." He pulled his headset off, then pushed his way to the front of the aircraft, reaching to open the door.

"You can't. I'll go." Starting to unfasten her belts, she shouted the words to be heard over the rotors, louder now that the door was open.

"No time." By now, they would be in the boat and casting off. "I need you to use the rotor wash to pin them against the pier."

She nodded her reluctant understanding, and he stepped from the helicopter, closing the door behind him. Caitlin lifted off as he took cover behind a stack of empty pallets.

_Damn, it was cold._ There hadn't been time to put on a coat. _He couldn't afford to think about that, or the pain that still pulled at his gut as he moved._ Caitlin was circling, working to push the Zodiac back toward him. Using the scant cover that was available, he worked his way toward the river, moving as quickly as he could.

Minutes later, over the steady thump of Airwolf's blades, he heard accented voices, shouting. Michael wiped the water from his eyes with the back of an already soaked sleeve. His hands were shaking as they held the rifle, the cold compounding the lingering effects of blood loss and zapping what little strength he had regained. He stepped out onto the crumbling, debris littered pier, cautiously approaching its edge. Six feet below and yards to his left, three figures were dimly visible in the wildly rocking boat, trying to use the small motor to overcome the artificially created waves that were holding it against the dock.

As if on cue, the helicopter's spotlight came on, illuminating the Zodiac. "Thank you, Cait," Michael murmured, raising the rifle and trying to still his hands enough to take a shot. He selected a target and pulled the trigger.

One of the men in the boat slumped forward, the other two ducked down out of sight. A moment later, before Michael could fire again, shots rang out from the boat. Michael sensed them passing close over his head, and he quickly stepped back, seeking cover. He found it behind a rusted tangle of metal that had once been part of a crane.

The rough purr of the boat's motor stopped. There was more shouting, and another sound, the clank of metal banging. Michael chanced a look around the crane, just in time to see someone scramble up the ladder from below and climb onto the pier. There wasn't time to get a shot off at him before he disappeared into the shadows. Certain that Caitlin would be watching from above so that the man didn't get away, Michael turned his attention to the other occupant of the boat. Warned now that his opponent might be armed, Michael forced legs that felt like rubber into a half-jog. He stumbled and nearly fell as he moved into the shelter of a raised piling.

From there, he could see into the boat. Someone he thought might be Zaid was cowering behind the slumped body of his fallen comrade. Michael brought him into the cross hairs of the M-16's sight. He was shivering uncontrollably now, and he leaned against the piling, trying to steady the shot.

A moment after he fired, he heard a second shot ring out from off to his side, and something hot creased his upper left arm. Ducking down, Michael spared it a quick glance. It wasn't a serious wound, it wouldn't have been even without the nanites, but at the moment, it was the last thing he needed.

Certain that he had hit and at least temporarily incapacitated Zaid, Michael looked for his assailant. Chirkoff, most likely. Above them, Caitlin turned the searchlight. Michael followed its beam. _There._ He raised the rifle and fired, but missed wildly. He couldn't hold the damn thing steady, he was shaking too violently.

Another bullet came in his direction, sending a shower of splinters as it bit into the wood of the piling just above his shoulder. Michael sprayed the remainder of his clip in Chirkoff's direction, hoping to get lucky. He ejected the empty, then fought to get a second clip out of his pocket. The wet metal slipped from fingers numb with cold and it fell to the ground as another shot pinged off the pavement near him.

It was becoming harder and harder to concentrate on what he was doing. Knowing he was in trouble, Michael dropped to his knees and reached for the magazine, trying desperately to jam it into place. As he did, two more shots rang out. Attention focused solely on getting the clip into the rifle, he didn't hear the footsteps. "Michael?"

Hypothermic, little more than half conscious, it took Michael a moment to identify the voice. _Locke._ He dropped the weapon and let himself sag to the ground. "Over here. Chirkoff..."

"Dead."

There was sudden warmth as Locke wrapped his jacket around Michael's shoulders. It was nearly as wet as he was, but it still held Locke's body heat. Locke extended a hand. "Let's go. You can't stay here, it's freezing."

Michael let Locke pull him to his feet. His legs held him, just barely. "Hawke?"

"Cleaning up." Still supporting Michael, Locke keyed his radio. "Cait, come on down. It's over."

Minutes later, Locke was helping him into the back of the helicopter. He sat down heavily, shaking and exhausted, but there were still things that had to be done. He could hear sirens wailing in the distance, coming closer. Michael grabbed Locke by his sleeve. "Radio the CDC. Have them warn police. Anthrax." He wasn't sure how much sense he was making.

"I'll take care of it," Locke promised.

"Zaid's people? All dead?"

"Hawke's making sure of it. He'll be here in a minute."

Satisfied, Michael released Locke, and his eyes fell closed. _He needed to rest, just for a moment._

Insistent tugging on his flight suit and the sensation of Airwolf lifting off combined to rouse him. "Come on, Love. We've got to get this off of you."

He wasn't sure he could move, even for Caitlin. "Cold." He forced the word through chattering teeth.

"I know. That's why we've got to get you out of these wet clothes. Just lean forward for me."

Michael did as she asked, and Cait lifted Locke's jacket free. She had already unzipped the flight suit beneath. Working by the dim glow of the instruments, she slipped the sopping wet fabric off his shoulders, and started pushing it down to free the sleeves. Her hands stopped suddenly as she came to the fresh crease across his arm. "You're bleeding."

He looked down. The bleeding had subsided to little more than a trickle that ran slowly down his arm, whatever more there had been had soaked into the suit's fabric and dispersed in the rain. "A scratch. It's okay."

She scowled, reaching for the first aid kit. "Michael, you were shot."

He tried to shake his head in negation. It was a bad idea, as it brought with it a wash of dizziness. He closed his eyes again as she wrapped gauze around the wound. "That should stop the bleeding, at least. I'd be a lot fussier if you didn't have those nanites in your system," he heard Cait say, sounding very far away.

Michael wanted to sleep, but she was pulling on his clothes again. "You've got to stay with me for a couple more minutes, Michael. Then we can get you warm."

_Warm. He would do anything to be warm._ "Can you get up, just for a second?" she asked.

He managed to, just barely, and she pulled the flight suit the rest of the way off. It left him wearing nothing but underwear, but even so, it was better than the wet fabric had been against his skin. Caitlin had found a towel somewhere, and scrubbed at him with it, trying to dry his hair. "I've got a couple sleeping bags laid out," she said. "Let's get you down onto them."

It wasn't easy in the small, confined space, and was a rather sharp reminder that the muscles in his abdomen were far from healed. Caitlin had zipped two bags together and used another for padding beneath. At the moment, it was one of the most inviting beds Michael had ever seen.

Caitlin reached up and grabbed one of the radio headsets. "Can you two get along without me for awhile?" She spoke into the mic, then cocked her head as she listened for the reply. "Thanks. I think he'll be alright, just keep the heat turned up."

She set the headset down, and started taking off her own flight suit, stripping down to the shorts and tank top she wore beneath. Cait slid into the sleeping bag cocoon behind Michael, wrapping herself around him. "It's okay, Love. You can sleep now."

It was all the encouragement he needed.

88888888

Cait was no longer beside Michael when he woke, instead, Hawke was behind the engineering console, dozing. The bright sunlight outside Airwolf's windows suggested that they were nearly home. Carefully, Michael edged himself into a sitting position, keeping the sleeping bag wrapped around him. He was no longer shivering, but he was still chilled. It felt as if the cold had seeped into his very bones.

A headset landed unceremoniously beside him, and he looked up to see Hawke grinning back at him. He pulled the headset on and heard Hawke's voice in his ear. "About time you woke up."

"Michael's awake?" Caitlin asked, keying her mic from the front of the helicopter.

"Yeah. I think he's thawed. The things some guys will to get a girl to sleep with them."

"String!" Her tone changed. "Michael?"

"I'm alright, Cait. Nothing a nice hot shower won't fix." A hot shower, or even better, a long soak in the tub.

"We'll be at the cabin in another half an hour or so," Hawke told him. "Marella's meeting us there. I thought she ought to check you out."

Michael didn't need Marella to tell him what he needed. Warmth, fluids, a good meal and plenty of rest. Once he got those, he would be fine. Now that Zaid and his associates were dead, he might actually be able to get all four. He still, however, had to figure out what he was going to do about Locke – and convince Hawke to go along with that decision. Michael pulled off his headset and motioned for Hawke to do the same. Airwolf's rotors were loud enough that they wouldn't be heard by the two up front. "I need a favor."

"I'm not going to like this, am I?"

"Probably not," Michael admitted. "I want you to make a detour on the way to the cabin."

"Where?"

"Mount Charleston."

"Locke's place." Hawke scowled. "Why?"

"Scan the area, make sure there's no one around. If there isn't, land and let Locke retrieve whatever he can."

For a long moment, Hawke simply stared at him. Finally, Hawke nodded and pulled his headset back on. "Change of plans, Cait. We're headed to Locke's."

88888888

Marella frowned as she put the thermometer back into her bag. "Your temperature is still slightly below normal."

"Doesn't surprise me." The fire blazing in Hawke's fireplace was doing an excellent job of warming Michael's skin, but deep down, the chill remained. He relaxed back into the cushions of the sofa, letting them support him.

"And you're still dehydrated. Are you sure I can't convince you to let me put in an IV?"

"No." He picked up the mug of herbal tea from the end table and sipped at it. The tea was something that Caitlin had brought to the cabin for Hawke to try. Too fruity and sweet, Michael didn't care for it any more than Hawke had. Unfortunately, Marella had vetoed anything that contained caffeine, even though they both doubted that it would affect him. "No more IVs, and no more drugs. I've had enough to last me a lifetime." It wasn't until he'd said the words that he realized the irony behind them.

Marella closed her medical bag, then sat down beside him. "Immortality is going to take a little getting used to."

He snorted. "A little?"

She smiled sympathetically. "Maybe more than a little." She reached for her own cup of tea. "As soon as you're back to norm..." Marella flushed with embarrassment. "As soon as you're healed, I want to do a full medical workup. Compare the findings with what I have on file."

Reluctantly, Michael nodded. As much as he detested being poked and prodded by doctors – even Marella – he wanted to know exactly what the nanites were doing to him. "Cait salvaged some of Moffet's files from Zaid's compound in Bolivia. Distasteful as they are, he kept rather detailed notes."

"You mind if I borrow them?"

"Please do, but be warned that they're not easy reading."

"I can imagine."

Michael wasn't so sure that she could, but he didn't argue, instead looking out the window. Marella had asked the others to go outside while she examined him. Hawke was out on the dock. His back was turned, but even at the distance, the set of his shoulders radiated his displeasure. Caitlin, Christine and Locke were all sitting on the porch, the two women taking turns throwing a ball for Hawke's dog. "What happens to Locke and Christine?" Marella's voice startled him from his thoughts.

"I don't know." Michael's emotions were mixed. A part of him wanted to turn Locke over to Zeus and the committee. Locke had blood on his hands. St. John, Jo Santini, and Mike Rivers, at a minimum. Indirectly, he could be blamed for the deaths of those Moffet had killed after he learned that Moffet was still alive. On the other hand, Locke had undoubtedly saved thousands if not more by coming to him with the information about Zaid and the anthrax – and by accompanying them on the raid in Baltimore.

There was also the matter of the nanites. If the Firm discovered what was in Locke's blood... Down that road waited disaster, not just for himself, but quite possibly for all of humanity. All it would take would be one leak of the knowledge. Michael shook his head. He needed time to consider all the ramifications before he made any decision. "I need to stash them somewhere for a few days." Somewhere where they could stay out of sight, and where Stringfellow Hawke wouldn't encounter Locke.

Marella raised an eyebrow. "Why would Locke stick around? Nothing to gain, and everything to lose."

"Lack of options. Zaid's hired hit men cleaned out the cash he had stashed, and he abandoned his car in the desert when he flew me back to his place. There's nowhere for him to go, and even if there was, I don't think he'd leave Christine."

She hesitated. "My condo. I'm between tenants."

Michael hadn't even considered that possibility, unaware the property was vacant. Since moving closer to her office, Marella had been renting out her condominium. "You know Hawke's not going to like it," he warned.

"He'll get over it. Eventually." She stood. "I'll call the others back in."

88888888

Zeus's intercom buzzed, and he raised the receiver to his ear. "You wanted to know when Archangel and the others arrived, sir."

The code name grated on his ear. As his former adversary had become something of an ally, _Archangel_ had become _Michael_. He started to remind his secretary that technically Michael no longer worked for the Firm, then realized that her use of the alias was simply force of habit. "Send them in," he said, instead. A moment later, Zeus rose as they entered. He nodded a greeting and gestured to the chairs arranged in front of his desk before sitting down again.

Zeus had been with the Firm for over thirty years. One didn't survive that long in the espionage business without developing an eye for the nuances. He kept his face carefully neutral as he considered the tableau before him.

Michael was walking as if he was on egg shells, and he looked like hell, ragged and pale even against the ever present white suit. He had taken the seat directly before the desk, and Caitlin had set down beside him, pulling her chair ever so slightly closer to her husband. Hawke, on the other hand, had consciously or unconsciously pushed his chair away, and was sitting with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face. Zeus wouldn't have been surprised by the scowl, except that today it seemed to be aimed more toward Michael than towards himself. _Curiouser and curiouser._

"I've called you in," Zeus began, "Because I've received some rather interesting reports. Two nights ago there was an incident on the waterfront in Baltimore. Witnesses reported seeing a large black helicopter with a white belly. Said helicopter caused a localized power outage by shooting down several electrical poles. Further, there was an anonymous call made to the Centers for Disease Control reporting anthrax contamination at that location. The call was made using a priority code known only to members of the Firm." _And then there were the bodies; bodies that had all been shot at least twice. Bodies that in some cases, according to the coroner, had been "finished off" at nearly point blank range after surviving their initial wounds. _Zeus sighed. _What the hell was really going on in that warehouse?_

It was Michael who answered, and he was choosing his words carefully. "We stumbled across a terrorist plot to contaminate Washington with anthrax spores, and took the actions we felt were appropriate to contain the situation."

"Which included executing _all_ of the suspects?" It wasn't Michael's style.

"It seemed prudent. We didn't know for certain how close they were to implementing their plan, or whether they had any fail-safes in place. The possibility existed that there might be explosives hidden somewhere in the building, and that one or more might be carrying a triggering device."

Zeus had no doubt that what Michael was saying was true, but he was equally certain that there was a great deal more that Michael wasn't telling. Once, that would have infuriated him. Now, he had come to understand that there were times when filling in the details was in no one's best interests. If those men had been killed in cold blood, then there was a damn good reason for doing it. "Has the situation been resolved?" he asked.

"It has, assuming that the CDC has secured the area."

Zeus allowed his features to twist into a frown. The building and the contaminated containers had been secured, and the battle was well underway to decide which agency's budget would be responsible for their disposal. There was also the question of who would be paying the local electrical company for the restoration of power, which had been shorted out over a five block area. Unfortunately, dealing with those issues would be his problem.

It appeared he wasn't going to get anything more out of Michael, at least not in front of Hawke and Caitlin. "I guess that's all then. Thank you for coming in," Zeus said, standing.

He watched as Michael and Hawke exchanged glances. Despite the friction between them, they were on the same page when it came to whatever had happened in Baltimore. Zeus kept his eye on Michael as he levered himself out of his seat, noting the careful way he moved. Michael followed Hawke and Caitlin as they made their way to the door.

Zeus waited until Michael was stepping through the doorway, the other two already in the outer office beyond. "Oh, Michael?"

He stopped and turned. "Yes?"

"Could you come back in here for a moment, please? And close the door behind you."

It was clear from the look on his face that Michael knew the timing had been intentional. Nevertheless, he did as Zeus asked. "Something else I can do for you?"

In answer, Zeus circled the desk so that it no longer stood between them. "Are you alright?"

"It's been a long week. I'll be fine."

Zeus nodded. He hesitated before he spoke again. "Our coroner examined the remains found in the warehouse. She thought that in several cases, she detected some slight healing of the initial wound before the individual's subsequent death." _Those deaths, like those of their fellow terrorists, brought on by bullet wounds to either the heart or the brainstem. _

Michael's mustache twitched infinitesimally. "That seems unlikely," he said, finally. "Have you ever heard of a wound healing that quickly?"

"No. I suppose not." Zeus indicated the door. "Thank you. I'm sure the others are waiting for you."

He watched Michael leave. _No, wounds didn't visibly begin to heal within minutes. And it was only a weather balloon that landed in Roswell, New Mexico._

88888888

"Are you sure you want to do this now? You could go home and rest for awhile first," Caitlin suggested.

Michael hadn't missed the furtive glances she directed his way as she drove, nor her worried frown. "No. I'd rather get it over with." He didn't bother trying to tell her that he was fine. _He wasn't._ Despite two days of doing little more than sleeping, just the meeting with Zeus had been enough to wear him out. He wondered if he should have let Marella give him intravenous fluids, or even a transfusion. _No._ He was drinking enough liquids to take care of the dehydration, and they had no idea how the nanites would react to a blood transfusion.

Caitlin turned the Mercedes into the parking lot of Marella's condo, pulling the car smoothly into the spot reserved for her unit and shutting off the engine.

"Cait, would you mind staying here?" He hated to ask her. Under other circumstances he would have come alone, but Caitlin wouldn't let him drive. It was probably a good call on her part. The way he felt, he really didn't have any business behind the wheel.

She didn't seem upset by his request. "I don't mind. Just thank Christine again for me."

"Thank her?"

"For taking care of you." She made a shooing motion. "Go. The sooner you get this done, the sooner you can get back to bed."

He opened the door and slid gingerly out, cautious about how he moved. Twisting or turning too abruptly was still painful, and the last thing he wanted was to chance doing any further damage. Michael walked slowly to the back of the car and popped the trunk, retrieving his briefcase. With a nod to Caitlin, he walked up the sidewalk to Marella's door.

The doorbell was loud enough for him to hear it through the door. From the corner of his eye, Michael saw the window curtain flutter. Locke was smart. The peephole in the door would only reveal so much. Checking the window would ensure there was no one else lurking out of sight. A moment later, the door opened. Christine smiled, seemingly pleased to see him. "Michael, come in."

As he entered, he noted that Locke was still at the window. "Think I was bringing backup?" Michael asked, as Locke abandoned his vantage point, apparently satisfied.

"I wasn't sure."

Christine ignored the tension between the two men. She took Michael's elbow and gently guided him towards the living room. "You need to sit down before you fall down."

"I look that bad, do I?" He cocked an eyebrow as he allowed her to lead him to the sofa, both touched by her concern and amused the way she expressed had it. "On second thought, don't answer that. Even Zeus commented."

The mention of the Director's name caught Locke's attention. "You've seen Zeus?"

Michael settled onto the sofa, setting his briefcase down beside him. "I just came from his office."

Christine had gone out into the kitchen, and now she returned carrying a plastic cup which she handed to Michael. "Orange juice," she explained. "Marella stopped at the store and picked us up a few things."

"Thank you." He sipped at the juice. "By the way, Caitlin wanted me to give you her thanks for taking care of me."

"There's no need to thank me."

"Just the same... You have my gratitude, as well." Michael realized that he didn't want Christine around for the discussion he needed to have with Locke. "Cait's out in the car, if you'd like to talk to her. It's the white Mercedes."

Christine smiled, the expression turning her features impish. "I never would have guessed."

Leaning against the archway between the two rooms, Locke waited until she had gone. He shifted restlessly. "You met with Zeus."

"He called and asked us to come in." Michael waved Locke towards a chair. "Sit. You're making me nervous."

"Sorry." Locke dropped into a chair, but didn't stop fidgeting.

Michael took another swallow of the juice. "I didn't tell him."

"About?"

"Anything. You, Christine, the damn alien nanites we've got in our blood." He let out a long breath. "He demanded to know what happened the other night in Baltimore. The story I told him had some major omissions."

"And he accepted it?"

"I'm not sure he wanted to look too closely." Michael lifted the briefcase onto the sofa beside him and thumbed the combination into the locks. It opened with a loud click. He took out a thick, heavy manilla envelope and handed it across to Locke.

Locke eyed it suspiciously. "What's this?"

"Probably a mistake."

Locke opened the envelope and looked inside. Confusion evident on his face, he raised his gaze to meet Michael's. "There must be..."

"Fifty thousand dollars, cash. There are also passports and driver's licenses for you and Christine. I've spoken to Marella. She's going to stop by this evening to take photographs and finish the details. She's also going to arrange transportation out of the Los Angeles area. After that, you're on your own."

It was a minute before Locke spoke. "I wasn't sure what you intended. Thank you."

Michael eased himself to his feet. "Don't. There is a part of me that would like nothing more than to turn you over to Zeus. Unfortunately, that would open up a can of worms that I have no desire to open." He picked up his briefcase and moved slowly to the door. Hand on the knob, he paused and turned to look back over his shoulder. "Jason..." he began, "Whether by choice or not, whether we like it or not, we both belong to a rather exclusive club." Michael hesitated, choosing his words. "Keep in touch," he said, finally. With that, he opened the door and stepped out.

When he reached the car, Christine was standing beside the open window, chatting with Caitlin through it. He returned the briefcase to the trunk and joined them.

"This is goodbye, isn't it?" Christine asked.

"For now, at least," Michael agreed.

She nodded her acceptance. "I'm glad to have met you. You, too, Cait."

Michael owed her his life, every bit as much as he did Locke. "I only wish that the circumstances had been a little different."

"Agreed. Take care of yourself, Michael."

They said their final goodbyes and Michael circled the car while Christine returned to the condo. He opened the door and collapsed into the seat. "Let's go home."

88888888

"Where's your damned double crossing husband?"

"String-"

"Don't 'String' me. Where is he?"

Raised voices echoing from the other end of the house woke Michael. _So much for sleeping in._ He eased himself out of bed and slipped on a robe, tying the belt around him.

"Michael is sleeping, and you're going to leave him alone. This can wait, Hawke." Caitlin might not be quite as loud as the pilot, but she was no less angry, as evidenced by her use of his last name.

"How the hell could he let Locke go?" Hawke's voice was irate and thick with emotion. He grew louder as the rant continued. "After everything that bastard has done!"

"Hawke, I said no. Not now. Michael is still a mess. He doesn't need this."

Michael shoved his feet into slippers then made his way out into the hallway, following the voices. He found Hawke and Caitlin arguing just inside the front door. Hawke paced, corked energy about to explode, ready to search the house for the target of his fury. Cait, ramrod straight with her arms folded in defiance, was deftly blocking his path.

Hawke was intent on the confrontation, and Caitlin had her back turned. Neither noticed Michael's silent approach. "It's alright, Cait. I'll talk to him."

She spun on her heel. Her expression softened momentarily as her gaze settled on him, and he could read the silent words her lips formed. _"I'm sorry."_

Cait's temper flashed again as she turned her attention back to Hawke. "Damn it, Hawke. You just had to wake him, didn't you?"

"Wake him? I damn well ought to shoot him!"

Hawke wasn't the sort of man who pushed a woman around, and that, undoubtedly, was the only reason he hadn't forced his way past Caitlin. _Michael wasn't surprised by Hawke's anger. He had expected it; perhaps he deserved it._ He hoped that an explanation might help to defuse some of the pilot's ire. Michael glanced towards the double doors that led out onto the deck. Sunlight beckoned. He addressed Hawke. "Let's go outside and get some fresh air," he said, keeping his voice level. "I think we both need it."

"Michael, you shouldn't-"

"It's fine, Cait." He cut off her protest. "We need to talk, and this is as good a time as any." He willed her to understand. This was something that had he to hash out with Hawke, just the two of them.

Her eyes flicked between the men, and she finally nodded, gaze settling on Hawke. "String, remember that he nearly died. Take it easy on him, okay?"

Hawke didn't answer, instead turning to follow Michael. They both walked out onto the deck. It was a warm day, well into the seventies, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. Michael sighed, glad that he had suggested going outside. The heat of the sun felt good, melting away whatever traces of chill lingered. He claimed one of the chairs while Hawke paced the perimeter of the deck, eventually stopping to lean on the railing, his back turned. He held himself stiffly, tension obvious in his stance.

"I saw copies of the photos Marella took for the IDs. She told me what you did." Hawke spat the words out as if they left a vile taste on his tongue. "How could you?"

"I didn't have a choice." _That wasn't the only reason, but it was a place to start._

Hawke didn't turn. "You were afraid that if you turned Locke in he'd rat you out. Tell the committee about that alien crap in your veins, tell them-"

"I won't deny that's a part of it." _Michael wanted to believe it was a small part._ "There's a hell of a lot more to it."

"Like what?"

"What do you think would happen when knowledge of that serum leaked out? And don't tell me that it wouldn't leak, because we both know that eventually it would."

It was a long moment before Hawke answered. When he did speak, it was just one word, and there seemed to be more dismay than venom behind it. "Shit."

"Precisely. How many people are there out there who are just as desperate as Locke was? People who are dying, people who have loved ones who are dying. People who just don't want to get old. What happens when there isn't enough serum for everyone who wants it?" Michael paused to let that possibility sink in. "What happens when there _is_ enough?"

Hawke finally turned. "You've made your point about turning him over to Zeus, but letting Locke walk away scot free? Actually _helping_ him? There were other options."

"He never meant for your brother to get killed, Hawke. I believe that on some level, he actually saw St. John as a friend."

The pilot dropped into one of the other chairs. "He stole from Moffet because he was trying to take care of Christine. I can almost forgive him for that."

"If it's not about St. John, then what...?"

Hawke started to answer, then shook his head. "It doesn't matter."

"Like hell it doesn't."

The silence stretched, before Hawke finally broke it. "Locke let me think that you...that you were transferred, that you just walked away without saying a word. That Cait never came back from Texas." Hawke buried his face in his hands. "I cursed you both. I cursed you for not being there for Dom's funeral. For me. And all the while you were laying in a hospital bed fighting for your life, because you had gone above and beyond trying to live up to the bargain we made when I took Airwolf back. I can't forgive Locke for that."

Michael let out a long, slow breath. It was more words than he had ever heard from Hawke, and the intensity of emotion behind them surprised him. He had known that Hawke had felt abandoned, but he hadn't realized just how deep that hurt went. _No wonder Hawke hated Locke._ Of course, Hawke didn't know all of it. Michael hesitated, wondering if he should tell him. _Hawke had the right to know. _"Locke's not the only one who didn't tell you."

Hawke looked up. "You couldn't. You thought I was dead."

"I'm not talking about myself. Your brother knew that I'd gone into Cambodia to get him out."

Startled, Hawke's head snapped around, the anger that had begun to cool suddenly reignited. "Did Locke tell you that?" he demanded.

"No," Michael answered quietly. "Locke never mentioned it. I had a talk with Zeus awhile ago."

"Zeus? How would...?"

"After Locke tried to trade Airwolf for that European assignment, Zeus called St. John in. He told your brother that the Firm knew where Airwolf was."

"I _know_ that. If I remember correctly, I'm the one who told you."

Michael sighed. "There's more. Zeus was trying to clue St. John in to the fact that he shouldn't entirely trust Locke. Zeus thought that your brother was putting his faith in Locke because Locke had rescued him from Burma. Zeus told St. John about my trip to Cambodia. To his surprise, St. John already knew. Locke had told him."

Hawke seemed to visibly deflate. "If he knew, why didn't he tell me?"

"I don't know," Michael answered. "Maybe he was trying to protect you."

"From you?"

"From someone he might have seen as using you." There were other possibilities, ones he wasn't about to suggest to Hawke._ For one, it was possible that St. John hadn't wanted to risk losing Airwolf any more than Locke had._

Perhaps the same thoughts had occurred to Hawke. He stood, and crossed the deck to the doors that led back into the house. Wrenching the door open, he paused to look back over his shoulder, hand still on the knob. "Deal with Locke however you see fit. I won't interfere." Without another word, he tromped through the doorway, leaving Michael alone.

88888888

Hawke pulled off his sunglasses and stuffed them into his shirt pocket. He stood staring at the doorbell for a few long moments before finally reaching out to jab it with his finger. Nervously shifting his weight, he looked down at the scuffed toes of his tennis shoes as he waited.

The door opened and he glanced up, anticipating an irate Caitlin and the tongue-lashing that he probably deserved. Instead, it was Michael who stood in the doorway.

Expecting to encounter Cait, Hawke found himself at a loss, uncertain of what to say to her husband. "I didn't expect you to be up," he said, finally. Michael was still pale but he was dressed, although by his standards, the open collar and rolled sleeves were unusually casual. "You look...better." The words, although accurate, sounded inane, even to his own ears.

Michael sized him up for a moment, as if debating whether to allow him inside. Eventually he stepped back and opened the door wider, a clear invitation. "You just missed Cait. She went out to get groceries," Michael said, as Hawke entered the house.

Hawke wasn't sure which of them he'd rather deal with. He had intended to apologize to Caitlin, but he couldn't quite bring himself to extend the same to Michael. Michael's aiding of Locke still rankled him. "I shouldn't have stormed out of here the way I did the other day," he said, after considering his words. It wasn't quite an apology.

The corner of Michael's mustache raised in what might have been a thinly disguised smile. "The door is still on its hinges, so no harm done." He led Hawke further into the house. "Beer? Or a glass of wine?"

"Beer." Hawke waited while Michael took two bottles from the refrigerator and passed him one. "Should you be drinking?" he asked, as he followed Michael into the living room.

"Marella must be rubbing off on you, you're starting to sound like her." Michael settled into his usual chair while Hawke took a seat on the sofa. "I'm sure she'd rather have me drinking something 'healthy and nutritious' but this isn't going to hurt me. The nanites will pull the alcohol out of it, anyhow."

Hawke winced at the last. He took a long swallow of the beer, trying to cover his reaction. _He was __trying really, really hard not to think about the alien serum that flowed through Michael's veins._

Michael had undoubtedly noted his reaction. "Don't think that I'm comfortable with having microscopic robots breeding in my blood, either. The idea scares the hell out of me."

Hearing Michael's admission led Hawke to voice his own fears. "Are you still..." Hawke couldn't quite bring himself to ask if Michael was still human.

The raised eyebrow he received in reply told him that Michael understood his real question. "I'm still me, if that's what you're asking." He scowled in the exaggerated manner of someone trying to make a point. "And somehow, I still manage to put up with you. Even when you behave like an ass."

Hawke snorted. "I suppose I deserve that. I don't agree with what you did for Locke, but I'm sorry for the way I came crashing in here the last time." The apology he hadn't been prepared to give earlier now rolled off his tongue with relative ease.

"I should have given you some warning about what I planned to do, and why. Normally, I probably would have, but I just didn't feel up to arguing about it."

"Why did you help him? I suppose I can understand letting him go, but the rest? He nearly got you killed."

"That was my own damn fault." Michael gestured toward the phone. "Locke was right. It was tapped. That's on my shoulders, not his."

"Still..."

Michael sat back in his chair, nursing the bottle of beer. "Hawke, what do you think would have happened if Zaid had carried out his plans? How many would have died? Locke had every reason to just walk away and forget about it. Instead, he helped us."

Hawke knew that without Locke, their raid on the warehouse wouldn't have been successful. He couldn't quite forgive the man, though. Rather than listen to Michael defend Locke, he changed the topic. "The other day, you brought up St. John."

Scowling, Michael set his beer down. "I probably shouldn't have."

St. John was the one thing they had never really discussed, the one topic that had somehow been off-limits ever since his own return from the dead. There were questions that he'd never quite dared to ask. "All the years I searched for him...did you know that he was working for the Firm? Did Zeus?"

Michael sighed. "There are certain branches of the Firm that have their own secrets, some of which they don't even share with the committee. Over the years there were whispered tales of American MIA servicemen who had been 'recruited'. I wasn't sure if there was any truth to the stories, or if they were only rumors; I never found any real evidence, and I never heard any names. I knew that the possibility existed that St. John might be involved, but I considered it to be extremely remote, at best. I honestly thought you were looking for a dead man."

Hawke stood and began pacing, too restless to remain seated. "St. John never told me why he didn't contact me. He wouldn't talk about any of it."

Visibly uncomfortable, Michael stroked his mustache. "You understand that I still have no proof?"

"I want to know, Michael. I need to know."

As if agreeing, he nodded once. "Following the Paris Peace Accords in 1973, the president assured the American people that all of our POWs had been returned. To put it bluntly, that was a lie. Many men remained prisoners, and the government of the time knew it. However, because of that assurance, Washington couldn't afford to have any of those men reappear."

"They were written off and abandoned." Hawke had long suspected as much.

"For the most part. There were a few, though... The way I heard it, in the late 1970's there were a number of covert missions into the Golden Triangle to disrupt the opium trade. On at least one of those missions, they discovered American POWs who were being used as slave labor. The men were recovered, but they were never returned to the states." From the look on Michael's face, he didn't think much of the way the situation had been handled.

"Then what...?"

"They were brainwashed into serving as spies. They knew the terrain, how and where the poppies were planted, harvested. They were convinced to go back into the very same areas they had been 'rescued' from."

Hawke's turbulent emotions carried him to the far side of the room, where he turned toward the window. Beyond it, instead of forested hillside, in his mind he saw Vietnamese jungle. "St. John never contacted me. All that time, all those years, there must have been an opportunity." He hoped that Michael would understand the un-asked question.

"I can't say for sure, Hawke, but I know how it's done. Those men had been held captive for a long time, some perhaps for a decade or more. The people responsible for conditioning them would have convinced them that their families had accepted their deaths and moved on. Those who had wives or girlfriends would have been shown photos of the women with other men. They might even have been told that their families had died, and there was nothing for them to go back to. If any of the men had insisted, they might have been instucted to write letters. Letters which would never have been delivered to their intended recipient."

"He might have written to me, and never got a reply?" Turning to face Michael, Hawke grabbed at the possibility as if it was a lifeline.

"Or received a reply that he only thought was from you," Michael answered quietly.

Hawke released a breath that he hadn't realized he was holding. "That's why he was so different. So distant." It made sense that St. John hadn't initially trusted him. However, it still didn't quite fit. His brother had never warmed to him. "Afterwards, though, he found out I had searched for him, that I'd even held onto Airwolf to blackmail _you_ into looking for him."

"If he truly believed it."

_What if St. John hadn't?_ "You think he thought that it was only an excuse to keep the helicopter?"

Michael shook his head. "I don't know. It's possible. It might explain why he kept you isolated. Then again, given the experiences he'd had, maybe he just didn't trust anyone. Perhaps he was only trying to protect you."

_They would never know._ "What about Locke?" Hawke asked abruptly. _St. John had, apparently, trusted Locke._ "Was he involved in the brainwashing? My brother's return to 'Nam?"

"No. That much I'm sure of. He was nowhere near any of that, and would have had no reason to know about it, at least not until Airwolf was dumped in his lap, and he started looking for St. John."

Hawke let out a long sigh. Locke hadn't been involved, and he _had_ ultimately brought St. John home. "There's that, at least."

"Yes. There's that."

88888888

Opening his eyes, Michael didn't have to look at the clock to see that it was late morning. Despite the drapes, bright sunlight flooded the bedroom. Caitlin was no longer beside him, her absence explained by sound of the shower running in the master bath.

He didn't want to get up. Trying to convince Cait that he was fully healed, he had finally relented and allowed Marella to drag him off to her office to examine him. Michael had expected a thorough physical, he had gotten that and more. In addition, she'd ordered full CT scans and had even administered IQ and personality tests. He had only escaped a functional imaging brain scan because the shrapnel and pins in his body precluded an MRI. Just the thought that she felt she'd needed to do all of that was disquieting enough that he'd had a hard time getting any sleep.

The results had been a relief. Normal—except of course the blood—and that would have passed scrutiny if she hadn't known what she was looking for. Less comforting was the fact she wanted to repeat everything in six months.

Michael sat up and pushed himself backwards until he was resting against the headboard. As he moved, the covers had slipped down to expose his abdomen. His fingertips traced the fading scar. It was, at once, both a blessing and a curse. It was proof that he hadn't hallucinated the events of the prior three weeks, and yet at the same time, it was unwanted evidence that the whole thing wasn't just a horrible nightmare. Sighing, he pulled the blankets back up to his waist.

It was something he was simply going to have to come to terms with. There were things that would have to be done. Identities to be created, long term investments to be made, trusts to be set up. It could all wait for awhile, but not too long. Michael Coldsmith Briggs would have to disappear before anyone realized he wasn't getting any older.

The shower shut off, and several minutes later he heard Cait's blow-dryer. Closing his eyes, he could picture her. Standing in front of the mirror, still pink from the heat of the shower, the water dripping from a few laden strands of hair and tracing its way down her skin. He felt the stirring of interest from his own body. Caitlin had refused to allow him to make love to her until he was completely healed. Now that Marella had given him a clean bill of health, he knew exactly what he wanted.

Lost in thought, Cait's return caught him by surprise. "Good morning," she said, seeing that he was awake.

"Good morning yourself." Grinning, he reached out toward her, snagging the towel she wore. He tugged it loose and let it drop to the floor. She was naked beneath. "Come here, sexy."

Laughing, she did as he'd asked, sitting down on the side of the bed and leaning over to give him a smolderingly hot kiss. "How's that? Close enough?"

As nice as the kiss was, it wasn't enough. He ran his hand lightly along her thigh. "No. Not nearly. I want to pull you down here and make mad, passionate love to you."

Cait's eyes clouded. She rose to her feet, retrieving the towel and securing it around her. "Michael, you were shot. It's only been a couple weeks."

"Marella gave me a clean bill of health. I'm fine."

She hesitated. "I...I think we should use protection."

Her words hit him like a sledgehammer. _She was afraid of him, afraid of being infected by the alien nanites in his system._ "Cait, the nanites aren't in my saliva or semen." Marella had checked. "Just my blood, and given that minor injuries heal almost instantly, the odds of transmission are infinitesimally low."

"It's not that," she answered quickly. _Perhaps too quickly._ She looked down towards the floor. "It's just that I don't think we should chance pregnancy. There's no way of knowing how a baby would be affected."

He wanted very much to believe that was her real concern. The effect of the serum on an infant was one of the few experiments that Moffet, thankfully, hadn't done. There was one problem, though, with crediting Cait's fear to the possibility of infecting a baby. Caitlin had Norplant capsules inserted in her arm. It would be a couple more years before she had to worry about pregnancy.

Despite what she'd said, she was afraid of him. As much as that hurt, he wasn't entirely sure he blamed her. _She was still willing to touch him and to be with him. That would have to be enough._ Michael reached out and took her hand. "It's okay," he said, quietly agreeing. "We'll use protection."

Perhaps reacting to something in his voice, her head snapped upwards, and her gaze locked on his. Cait bit her lip. "There's something I need to tell you."

Michael could guess what she was going to say. She was going to admit her fear. He didn't want to force her to say it. _He didn't want to hear it._ "You don't have to, Cait."

"Yes, I do." Caitlin sat down on the edge of the bed beside him. "The night we stayed at Locke's, that morning I woke up before you did."

"And?" he prompted, when she fell silent.

"I started to tell you in the shower before we heard Airwolf coming. I've tried...it just never seemed to be the right time." Her fingers tightened nervously on the bedclothes. "I had Christine inject me with the serum."

He didn't speak at first. Instead, he simply stared at her, trying to comprehend her words. "You asked her to..." he began, breaking off when he couldn't find anything else to say.

"That's why I'm worried about pregnancy. I know the nanites change the way drugs work. I don't know if I'm fertile or not. Until we're sure, I don't want to take the chance."

Michael finally found his voice. "Cait, why? I offered you this, and you gave me reasons—good reasons—why you weren't interested. Your family, friends."

"I know, and those reasons are still valid. At least, they _would_ still be valid, if we were making the decision together." Caitlin leaned forward and ran her fingers along his cheek. "That decision was taken away from us, and to be honest, I'm glad it was. Otherwise I would have lost you."

He caught her hand in his own. "Just because I... You didn't have to do this."

"Yes, I did. I love you, and if you're going to stick around, then so am I."

It was too late to ask her if she was sure. He only hoped that she wouldn't come to regret what she had done. "I love you, Cait. I always will." He was certain of that.

Caitlin leaned forward, the towel coming loose as she kissed him deeply. She finally released him. "Till death do us part," she whispered into his ear, "You're going to be stuck with me for a very long time."

"Till death," Michael agreed. His hands ran lightly over her skin, and he felt her shudder as his lips brushed her neck, teasing. There was no rush. He would make love to her slowly, passionately. He wanted her more desperately than he ever had, but he could afford to be patient. _They had time. Plenty of time. _

88888888

Michael rolled onto his left side, careful not to wake the woman beside him. It was early, barely evening, but he couldn't fault Cait for dozing. Other than a couple short forays into the kitchen for food, they had spent the entire day in bed, but little of it resting. Long talks had alternated with working their way through the contents of a package of condoms.

He watched the steady rise and fall of her chest, the way that even in her sleep, she edged closer to him every time she shifted. For all the words they had exchanged, Caitlin had never found ones that explained why she had asked Christine to give her the serum. _She loved him._ It was the only answer she had, and he hadn't pushed her for more.

They had five years—maybe ten—before it became obvious that neither of them were aging. Then, they would find a way to disappear, and they would go. _New England. Somewhere in New Hampshire __or Vermont._ It was what Cait said she wanted, and it didn't matter to him. The Firm had little presence in that part of the country, so it was probably a good choice.

He would start setting things up. It would be easier if he was still officially in the intelligence business, but he had contacts, and he had time. When the day came for the two of them to leave, their future would be waiting for them.

His mind already working out the details, Michael rubbed absently at his right forearm. Abruptly, he realized what he was doing, and why. There was a very slight tingle, something less than a pins-and-needle sensation, but definitely something more than the numbness that had existed since the bullet had shattered his collarbone and damaged the nerves.

For one moment, he considered waking Caitlin to tell her. _No._ He would wait until he had something more concrete than just the barest trace of an odd but not uncomfortable sensation.

Moffet's notes had indicated that the older an injury was, the longer it would take the nanites to repair any remaining damage. Almost a decade had passed since he'd been shot. It would take years before he had full use of his shoulder, and even longer before his knee was a hundred percent. _It was alright. He could wait._

"Michael, Love?"

Caitlin's voice dragged him from his thoughts. "Thought you were sleeping," he teased.

"I was." She moved closer, until she was pressed against him. "Want to go again?"

He was surprised to find that he did. Whether his stamina was a byproduct of the nanites or just a response to the forced abstinence, he wasn't complaining. In answer, he pulled her even more tightly to him as his lips found hers.

"I'll take that as a yes," she said, laughing.

_It was a yes. It was definitely a yes._

88888888


End file.
